by Anne Perry
“She disliked the camera. She felt it caught only the outer person, and she did not care for the way she looked …”
Surprise flickered across Eleanor’s face.
“The person you describe sounds so lovely I had imagined her beautiful.”
“Catriona?” He was a little surprised. “When you knew her, she was. She had lovely eyes, very dark and wide, and shining hair; but she was a very big woman. After our daughters were born she seemed to become bigger, and never lost it again. I think she was more aware of it than anyone else. I certainly was not.”
“Then it hardly matters, does it?” Eleanor said, dismissing it. “Catriona. That is an unusual name. Was she Scottish?”
“Yes—as my father was, although I was born here in England.”
Goodall returned with a tray of tea and sandwiches and their conversation was interrupted while it was set down.
Goodall poured and passed the cups and the plates, then withdrew again.
“We have talked enough about me,” Drummond said, dismissing himself as a further topic. He was keen to hear something of her, even if it proved to be oddly painful: a whole world in which she knew and cared for other people and into which he could never intrude once this wretched case was over. “Please tell me of yourself.”
He half expected her to make the usual demur that modesty dictated. It was an automatic reaction of women, required by society, to be self-effacing, and he was delighted when she began a trifle awkwardly, but without excuse, as though she wished him to know.
She sipped her tea then set the cup down and began.
“My father was a man of letters, a student, but I barely remember him.” Her lips curled with a faint smile, but of far-off memories, not self-pity. “He died when I was nine, and I am afraid I can bring back to mind only the faintest recollections of him. He always seemed to have a book open in his hand, and he was very absentminded. I recall him as thin and dark, and he spoke very softly. But I am not sure if that is true memory, or the mind of my adult knowledge painting it for me from a late picture my mother had.”
Drummond thought of the privation of a new widow with a child to raise. His tea sat forgotten.
“What happened to you?” he asked with concern. “Had your mother family?”
“Oh yes. My grandfather was an archdeacon and he had a very good living. We went to live with him, my mother, my brother, my sister and myself. It was a large country house outside Bath, and very agreeable, with a garden full of flowers and an orchard where I remember playing.” Again she sipped her tea and took one of the small sandwiches. “My grandmother was rather strict, but she indulged us when she chose. I was a touch afraid of her, because I never learned precisely what pleased her and what did not, so I could never judge what her temper would be. I think now, looking back, that perhaps it had nothing to do with me at all.” She smiled and met his eye with sudden clarity. “I think children imagine themselves far more important than they are, and take the blame for a great deal that has no connection with them at all. Don’t you?”
It had never occurred to him. His own daughters were grown up and married, and he could not remember ever having spoken with them of such things. “I am sure you are right,” he lied without a flicker. “You seem to remember it very clearly.”
“I do, it was a happy time. I think I knew that even then.” She smiled as she thought of it, and he could see in her eyes that her thoughts were far away. “I think that was one of the things I liked best about Sholto when I first met him,” she said quite naturally, as if Drummond were an old friend and easy to talk to.
At last Drummond picked up his cup, as much to avoid staring as from any taste for it.
“He saw the beauty of land,” she continued. “The sunlight in the silent orchard, dappling all the tree trunks, the boughs of blossom so low they tangled in the long grass. Grandpapa was always telling the gardener to tend the vegetables so the poor man never got time to prune the trees. We had far too many apples and plums, but they were never very large. Geoffrey hated the place. He said it was a waste.”
“Who was Geoffrey?” he asked.
“I was betrothed to him when I was twenty-one. He was a dragoon. I thought he was so dashing.” She laughed a little at herself. “Though looking back, I think he was probably pompous and very self-important. But it was a long time ago.”
“And you left him for Lord Byam?” He should not have asked—it was indelicate—but he realized it only after the words were out.
“Oh no!” she said quickly. “Grandpapa heard that Geoffrey had been paying attention to a young lady of”—she colored—“of questionable reputation, and Grandpapa said I could not possibly marry him. He broke off the engagement. I heard later that Geoffrey married a viscount’s daughter.” She laughed as she said it, and he knew it had long ago ceased to hurt.
“Then Mama died and I found myself running the household and caring for Grandpapa,” she went on. “He was a bishop by then. My sister died in childbirth and my brother lost a leg in the Indian mutiny in ’fifty-eight. It was shortly after that when I met Sholto, and we became betrothed very quickly. Grandpapa liked him, which made it all so much easier. And Sholto’s conduct was irreproachable and his reputation spotless. Grandpapa inquired into it exhaustively. I was mortified, but poor Sholto bore it all with excellent temper. I could have loved him for that alone. But he was also possessed of a greater sense of humor, and that made him so agreeable to be with. People who can laugh at themselves are seldom insufferable, don’t you think? I have often considered if a sense of humor is not closely allied to a sense of proportion in things. Have you?”
“You are right,” he agreed quickly. “It is when one’s sense of proportion is offended that one can see the absurd. And when it is not ugly it is funny, but either way, we know that it cannot be overlooked. One can never be intimidated in the same way by what one perceives as ridiculous, so perhaps it has a kind of relationship to courage as well.”
“Courage?” Her eyebrows rose. “I had not thought of that. And speaking of courage, Mr. Drummond, I am most grateful for your kindness to us, and your endless patience. Now I must not exhaust it by overstaying. It is growing dusk and I must return home before I cause comment by the uninformed. It would be an ill way to repay your generosity.”
“Please do not worry,” he said urgently. “I will do everything I can …”
“I know.”
“And—and Pitt is an excellent man, even brilliant at times.”
She smiled, a wide, generous gesture as if for a moment all her fears had been lifted, although he knew it could not be so.
“Thank you. I know it is in the best possible hands.” She rose to her feet and he stood quickly, reaching for her shawl to wrap around her shoulders. She accepted it graciously. Then after a second’s hesitation, she went to the door and he stepped ahead to open it for her. She gave him her hand for an instant, then withdrew it. After only the briefest words, she was gone, and he was left in the hall doorway, with Goodall looking as surprised as his position and training would allow.
“A very distinguished lady,” Drummond said unnecessarily.
“Indeed sir,” Goodall said without expression.
“I’ll take dinner late this evening,” Drummond said sharply, irritated with Goodall and with himself.
“Very good, sir.”
In the morning Drummond set out for Bow Street with an unaccountable feeling of good cheer which he did not examine, for fear it would prove foolish if he discovered its reason and the little singing bubble of well-being inside him would burst. He strode along in the sun, swinging his cane, his hat at a rather more jaunty angle than customarily. He disregarded the newsboy shouting out the latest scandal in order to sell his papers, and the two dray drivers swearing at each other as they maneuvered their great horses, one around a corner, the other backing into a yard to unload. Even the barrel organist’s hurdy-gurdy sounded tuneful in the open air.
He c
aught a hansom in Piccadilly and dismounted at Bow Street. His good humor was met with a poor reward when he saw the desk sergeant’s face. He knew he was late, but that was his prerogative, and should not cause any comment, let alone alarm. His first thought was that something ugly had broken in the Weems case.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“Mr. Urban wants ter see yer, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I don’ rightly know what for.”
“Is Mr. Pitt in?”
“No sir, not that I knows of. If you want ’im we can send a message. I spec’s ’e’s ’round Clerkenwell way. Far as I know ’e’s workin’ out o’ there lately.”
“No—no, I don’t want him. I just wondered. You’d better send Mr. Urban up.”
“Yessir, right away sir.”
Drummond had barely sat behind his desk when there was a sharp knock on the door, and as soon as he spoke, Urban came in. He looked pale and angry, more tense than Drummond could remember seeing him in the short time since he moved from Rotherhithe.
“What is it?”
Urban stood stiffly, his face strained, his hair untidy as if he had recently pushed his fingers through it.
“I’ve just been informed, sir, that the director of public prosecutions has written to the commissioner of police to inquire if Constables Crombie and Allardyce were committing perjury when they gave testimony against Mr. Horatio Osmar in the matter of his being accused of public indecency—sir!”
“What?” Drummond was stunned. He had been half expecting something unpleasant on the Weems case, some other public figure involved, or worse still, another member of the police. This was totally unforeseen, and ridiculous. “That’s absurd!”
“Yes sir, I know.” Urban’s expression did not change. “There was no explanation, simply a formal letter; the director of public prosecutions seems to be taking it all quite seriously. We have to make a proper response, sir, a formal answer, and then I presume there will be an investigation and possibly charges.”
Drummond put his hands up to his face. “If this wasn’t happening I would find difficulty believing it. What on earth is the man dreaming of?” He looked up at Urban. “I suppose you are quite sure? There’s no possibility Crombie and Allardyce were mistaken, saw something a bit odd and leaped to a conclusion without grounds?”
“No sir,” Urban replied without hesitation. “I asked them that. They are quite sure he had his trousers undone and she had her blouse open at the front and they were struggling around with each other in a way likely to cause offense to anyone passing. Whatever they were actually doing, there is no doubt what it looked like to an average person close enough to see them at all.”
“What a damned nuisance no one thought to ask the fellow who brought in the case. He might have corroborated it.”
“Or not,” Urban pointed out.
“Well if he hadn’t we’d have dropped the charges in the first place,” Drummond said testily. “All right. I’ll deal with it. You were involved from the beginning, you’d better leave it alone now. I’ll see they send someone from another station.”
“Yes sir.” Urban still sounded angry, but he accepted the inevitable.
“Damn!” Drummond said softly when he had gone. Why were they wasting good men’s time on such idiotic things when there were real and dreadful crimes to solve, and even rising violence to try to prevent. Although thank heaven there had been nothing this year to equal the horror and subsequent panic of the Trafalgar Square riots two years ago which had come to be known as Bloody Sunday. But the ugly rumors of anarchists and other fomenters of treason were still there just under the surface.
Drummond tried to think of anything he knew about Horatio Osmar. There was little enough, an undistinguished government career. His name had seldom been mentioned in connection with any major legislation, and even when it had it was only as a supporter or opponent, never as having innovated anything. He was a rather self-important little bon viveur.
What on earth made him think he could get away with it? Why was he now having questions asked in the House, and the Home Secretary upsetting the director of public prosecutions and the police commissioner and trying to raise a scandal about police perjury? Why did anyone take any notice of him? Many people protested innocence; it was instinctive. Others were not able to pursue it this far. Why Osmar?
What would Eleanor Byam think if she knew he was spending his time not pursuing the murderer of William Weems as he had promised her, but trying to find out beyond doubt whether two of his young constables had witnessed an ex-junior minister behaving indecently on a park bench, or if they had perhaps overreacted to a rather silly scene of scuffling around trying to open a locket around a young woman’s neck?
Byam had brought Drummond in to help him in case he were accused of murder. Osmar had brought the D.P.P. in for a case of public indecency. But had it been done in the same fashion, in the name of the same brotherhood? It was a thought which brought a chill to his body and a rising feeling that was not unlike sickness. What was he, or any of them, being used for? He had assumed that Osmar was guilty. He had equally assumed that Byam was not. In his own mind Osmar’s use of influence was corrupt. He had considered himself to be helping a brother in extreme difficulty.
But what else did the Inner Circle do? These were only two very dissimilar instances. What were all the others? Who judged what was corrupt and what was honorable? And who was at the heart of it?
A little before three in the afternoon there was another knock on his door. As soon as he spoke, it opened to admit a youngish man, perhaps in his late thirties, handsome in a most unusual fashion. His face in repose might have been considered very ordinary, nose much too bony and prominent, eyes wide set and very fine, thick hair waving back from a good brow, cheeks very lean. It was his mouth which was remarkable, delicate lipped, sensuous, and when he smiled possessed of extraordinary, illuminating charm. It was a face about which Drummond instinctively had profound reservations, and yet he wanted to like it. It should have been a strong face, with those remarkable bones, and yet there was something in the balance of it that made him doubt.
“Superintendent Latimer,” the man introduced himself. “I have been sent over from the Yard to look into this miserable matter of the two constables who say they saw Horatio Osmar misbehaving on a park bench.”
“Latimer?” Drummond said with a chill passing through him like a sudden shiver. “Clarence Latimer?”
The man’s face remained perfectly bright. “Yes. Do you know me?”
Drummond swallowed and forced himself to smile. “Heard your name.” He shrugged. He was stung by the man’s imputation that the constables’ word was doubtful, but he kept his voice level.
“If they say they saw him, then I accept that they did,” he said with only a hint of sharpness. “They are both reliable men who have never previously overstated their case.”
“Oh personally I don’t doubt it,” Latimer agreed easily. “But officially I have to look into it. I’ll begin by speaking to them. Are they around the station, or should I send to have them come in?”
“No need.” Drummond’s mind was still racing with thoughts to tell Pitt. It was his worst fear about the list realized. “We were expecting you. They are on duties around the station, and you can see them as you wish. I’ll be surprised if they tell you anything beyond what they have said all along.”
“So shall I, but I have to ask.” Latimer shrugged. “Never know, they might come up with some detail that pushes it a little one way, or the other. Then I’ll find this wretched girl, what’s her name?”
“Beulah Giles.”
“Right. May I send someone to bring her here?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. From what I’ve heard, nobody has really questioned her so far. Is that really so?”
Drummond kept his mind on the subject with difficulty. “Yes. The magistrate threw the case out before she was called to the stand.”
“W
ell, well. Pity. She might have cleared up the whole matter.”
“Quite. That is very possibly why she was not called,” Drummond said acidly.
Latimer flashed him a broad, beautiful smile. “No doubt.” And he excused himself and left.
Drummond took a piece of paper and wrote a brief note to Pitt with Clarence Latimer’s name, rank and whereabouts. He left it sealed, with the desk sergeant, to be given to Pitt the first moment he set foot in the station.
At four o’clock the hansom arrived carrying Miss Beulah Giles, this afternoon dressed in a cotton print gown considerably lower at the bosom than the one she wore on her visit to the courtroom. By then, the Bow Street station was more than fully occupied with three recently arrested street robbers, with violence, a pickpocket caught in the act with his accomplice, and a man who had been charged with setting up an illegal cock fight. There was no room in which Latimer could interview Miss Giles, and he declined to keep her waiting for an indefinite period until there should be a suitable space. He considered the best alternative was to get back into another hansom and take her to Scotland Yard where his own office would be available, and he could be assured of quiet and suitable surroundings. At the time no one thought anything further about the matter.
When Pitt arrived at Bow Street after having spent a miserable morning at Clerkenwell, he was immediately handed Drummond’s note. He read it with a sinking in the bottom of his stomach, but no surprise. He knew there was a Latimer at the Yard, he had not known his given name. Now he had no alternative but to begin his investigation of him.
As with the others, he started with his home. He already knew from the list where he lived; the difficulty was to think of an acceptable excuse for calling. Latimer was his senior. If he was clumsy or offensive he could very well find himself in a very unpleasant situation. Duplicity would inevitably be discovered unless he were extremely fortunate, and could find evidence to clear Latimer almost straightaway. The only alternative he could think of was to tell a great deal of the truth, simply to twist his own part in it a little.
