by Anne Perry
Drummond pursed his lips but there was agreement in his eyes.
“And then when Weems was temporarily unconscious,” Pitt continued, “he saw the opportunity—probably Weems had already let him know he was blackmailing Byam—so he loaded the blunderbuss and killed Weems. Then he took the papers incriminating Byam, and Weems’s half of the letter, perhaps not even realizing there was another half. He left the second list incriminating the errant members of the Inner Circle, of which he is a master, in order to discipline them. I daresay he knew their secrets through the Inner Circle as well. With this situation he would take over the blackmail of Byam himself, and force him to change his Treasury decisions and allow Anstiss to step in with his venture capital. The profit would be enormous.”
Drummond sat without speaking for several moments, then at last he looked up. There was no conviction in his eyes.
“It seems to me you are trying too hard, Pitt. There are too many motives for Anstiss, and all of them too small to move an intelligent and self-controlled man to murder, especially one who already has power, wealth and position. I can easily believe he would take advantage of Weems’s death and Byam’s vulnerability to extend the blackmail and force Byam to change his political decisions on African loans. But I can’t see him committing cold-blooded murder to bring it about. And honestly, even with proof that he profited, I don’t think we would convince any jury of it. In fact I don’t think we’d even get the public prosecutor to bring the charge.”
Pitt refused to give up.
“Perhaps Anstiss had not seen the letter until Weems showed it to him,” he suggested. “And we don’t know what was in his half, but if it was in the same vein as the half we have, he may have struck out in rage then, and his prime motive might have been to have revenge on Byam. Especially if Byam told him what he told you—that he was never Laura Anstiss’s lover, that it was simply a sudden infatuation she had for him, and he broke it off when he realized how serious she was. If Anstiss had accepted that all these years and forgiven him in that belief, to see proof in Laura’s own hand, if he was also deeply in love with her …”
He stopped. It was not necessary to fill in the rest. Infatuation was one offense; to be cuckolded in one’s own house quite another.
Drummond’s face tightened.
“That I can believe. If he had always accepted Byam’s innocence, and his wife’s virtue, if not her love, then it would come as a very violent shock to him, enough to make him lose all control, at least for long enough to strike out at Weems’s smiling face, and then kill him, and get rid of the one other person who knew of it—and destroy Byam as the perpetrator. But can you prove any of it?”
“I don’t know.” Pitt shook his head. “Valerius will bring proof of the financial connection, which will be sufficient to go and question him. Then we can find the stick, or prove he has recently lost one. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find the blunderbuss, or that he will have kept Weems’s half of the letter.”
“The main thing will be to see if we can place him in Cyrus Street,” Drummond pointed out. “Or if he can prove he was somewhere else. When do you expect this Valerius?”
“Some time this evening.”
“No more accurate than that?”
“No—he said it would not take him long, but I did not press him to a particular hour.”
Drummond rose to his feet slowly, as though his body were stiff.
“Then I’ll go and see Byam, at least tell the poor devil he is no longer suspected. He will be very shocked if it is Anstiss. They have been friends most of their lives.”
“He won’t be so very shocked when he realizes Anstiss has read Laura’s letters,” Pitt said dryly.
Drummond made no comment, but picked up his hat from the stand at the door, and his cane from the rack below.
Drummond walked well over a mile before he hailed a hansom and directed it towards Belgrave Square. It was a cool evening with a breeze off the river and the mist was rising. By dusk it could well be foggy. He needed time to think, although all the time in the world would not alter the facts. He would be able to give Eleanor the one thing she really wished: her husband’s innocence, even his release from the second blackmail. Drummond would always know what the letter contained, the evidence that Byam’s involvement with Laura Anstiss was not as innocent as he had claimed, but he would not tell her that.
He passed a group of ladies and tilted his hat politely as they inclined their heads.
What Byam chose to tell Eleanor was his affair, and if she guessed he had lied it was still between them. She might well put it from her mind and forgive him. It had been twenty years ago, and before he knew her.
Then Drummond would never see her again, unless their paths crossed socially, and he was torn as to whether he even wanted that or not. It was a decision he would not make now.
An acquaintance passed in an open carriage and he acknowledged him absently. Why was it when you most wished to be alone that you passed so many people you knew?
He hailed a hansom and climbed in.
Belgrave Square came all too quickly. He alighted and paid. There was nothing more to decide, nothing more to think about. He went up the steps and pulled the bell.
The butler let him in and mistook his grave face for a portent of bad news.
“Shall I call Lord Byam, sir?” he said grimly.
Drummond forced a pleasanter look.
“If you please. I have word he will wish to hear.”
“Indeed, sir.” The man’s eyebrows rose. “I am very relieved.” And after conducting Drummond to the library, he disappeared about his errand.
The fire was lit this evening, in spite of its being summer and still many hours of daylight left. The mist was heavier now and there was a dampness to the air outside. The fire’s glow was welcome. Automatically Drummond went over to it.
Byam came almost immediately. Drummond was half glad Eleanor had not come with him. It would be easier, and perhaps more appropriate, if he were able to tell Byam without her there.
“What have you heard?” Byam did not even pretend to courtesies. His face was pale with spots of color high in his cheeks and his eyes looked feverish. He had closed the door behind him, cutting off the servants, Eleanor and the rest of the house. “Do you know who killed Weems?”
“Yes, I believe I do,” Drummond replied. He was taken by surprise that Byam should have asked so bluntly. He had expected to govern the conversation himself, to approach the subject and choose his words.
Byam tried to be casual, but his body under its elegant clothes was rigid and he drew his breath as though his lungs were compressed and his throat tight.
“Is it—is it anyone I have—have heard of?” He cleared his throat. “I mean was it someone else he was blackmailing? Or one of his ordinary debtors?” He made half a move as if to go to one of the silver-topped decanters on the side table, then stopped.
“It appears to be someone he was blackmailing,” Drummond answered. “But you will appreciate, we have not arrested him yet, so I prefer not to say more. I came to tell you as soon as I could that you need no longer worry about your own safety or reputation.”
“Good. I—I am obliged to you.” Byam swallowed. “You have behaved with great consideration, Drummond. I am sensible of your generosity.”
Drummond was embarrassed, painfully aware of his emotions as well as his acts, things of which he profoundly hoped Byam had no notion.
“I assume you will arrest him?” Byam went on, more to fill the silence than from any apparent interest.
“Tomorrow,” Drummond replied. “We still require some documentary evidence.”
Byam moved jerkily and made as if to speak, then remained silent. He seemed very little relieved, considering the weight of the news Drummond had just brought, almost as if it were peripheral to his real anguish.
“We know you are not guilty,” Drummond said again, just in case somehow he had not grasped that his ordeal was over.
Byam forced a smile. It was ghastly.
“Yes—yes, I am very grateful.”
“And the blackmail will end,” Drummond added, trying to bring the man some ease.
“Of course. Weems …”
“No—I mean the second blackmail—to change your mind on the lending policy in the African empire states and drive them to venture capital. It was the same man, and his arrest will end it all.”
Byam stood motionless.
“I—I thought it was one of Weems’s associates,” he said very quietly. “Whoever he left his papers with, to safeguard himself.”
“No—it was his murderer,” Drummond corrected. “When he killed Weems he took the letter, and blackmailed you with it. Only this time not for a few guineas, but for political corruption and the infinitely greater prizes that would bring.” He realized as he said it that freedom from suspicion, even from that pressure, was only part of Byam’s need. He would never undo the decisions he had made in office, or the guilt for having set his personal reputation ahead of his political honor.
“I’m sorry,” Drummond said quietly. It was not an apology.
Byam was ashen, as if every vestige of blood had drained from his face.
“And Weems was blackmailing the murderer also, you say?”
“Yes.”
“For money?”
“Presumably. But it didn’t work. The man killed him.”
Byam swayed on his feet. He forced the words between dry lips.”
“And—took the—letter?”
“Yes.” Drummond was afraid Byam was going to faint, he looked so ill.
“How—how did you discover… ?” Byam stammered.
“It was the letter, actually,” Drummond replied. “Pitt found half of it. Can I get you something? Brandy?”
“No—no! Please leave me. I am …” He coughed and gasped for breath. “I—I am obliged.” Drummond stood helpless for a moment longer, then went to the door and found the butler standing outside in the hall.
“I think Lord Byam is not well,” he said hastily. “Perhaps you had better go and see if you can be of assistance.”
“Yes sir.” And without waiting to hand him his hat and stick, simply indicating the footman, the butler did as he was told. Drummond took the things from the footman’s hand and went outside into the foggy, clammy evening, already growing dim.
Pitt met Drummond at eight o’clock the following morning. The mist had not yet cleared and the streets were damp, their footsteps echoing when they alighted from the hansom and walked across the pavement and up the steps to Lord Anstiss’s house. Drummond rang the bell.
It was several chilly minutes before a footman answered, looking surprised and more than a little confused to see two people he did not know on the step at this hour.
“I’m sorry sir,” he apologized. “Lord Anstiss is not yet receiving visitors.”
Pitt showed him his police identification.
“He will see us,” he insisted, gently pushing past the man.
“No ’E won’t, sir!” The footman was clearly extremely unhappy. “Not at this hour, ’E won’t!”
Drummond followed them in and unconsciously glanced at the hall stand where two sticks and an umbrella rested. Pitt picked up both sticks and turned them over in his hand, looking at the lower ends of the shafts.
“ ’ere!” the footman said sharply. “You can’t do that! Them is ’is lordship’s. Give ’em ter me!”
“Are they Lord Anstiss’s sticks?” Pitt asked, still holding them. “Are you sure?”
“ ’Course I’m sure! Give ’em ter me!”
Drummond waited, deeply unhappy, visions of dismissal and disgrace in his mind, should they prove mistaken.
But Pitt seemed very certain.
“Don’t worry,” he said to the footman more gently. “They are evidence—at least this one is.”
“Is it?” Drummond demanded. “Have you found something? You’re sure?”
Pitt’s face did not lose its grim expression, but the line around his mouth eased a little. “Yes—there’s a dark stain ingrained in the wood of the shaft, reddish brown.” He looked at the footman. “We must see Lord Anstiss. This is not your fault. We are police and you have no choice but to call his lordship. We will wait at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Dammit, Pitt!” Drummond said under his breath. “He’s not going to run away!”
Pitt gave him a dour look, but did not move.
The footman hesitated a moment, looking questioningly at Drummond.
“You’d better go and waken him,” Drummond agreed. The die was cast and there was no retreating now.
Obediently the footman went upstairs, and came down again within the space of three minutes, his face pink and worried.
“I can’t get in, sir, and neither can I make ’is lordship answer me. Is there summink wrong, sir? ’Ad I better fetch Mr. Waterson?”
“No—we’ll go up,” Pitt said quickly, without giving Drummond time to suggest any alternative. He glanced at the footman. “You’re a big lad, come with us in case we need to force the door.”
“Oh, I can’t do that!”
“Yes you can if you’re told to.” Pitt strode up the stairs two at a time and the others followed hard on his heels. “Which way?” he asked at the top.
“Left, sir.” The footman squeezed in front and went along to the first door in the east wing. “This one, sir. But it’s locked.”
Pitt turned the handle. It was indeed locked.
“Lord Anstiss!” he said loudly.
There was no answer.
“Come on!” he ordered.
He, Drummond and the footman put their shoulders to it and together all three of them threw their weight at it. It took them four attempts before the lock burst and they half fell inside. The footman stumbled across the dim room towards the curtains and drew them back. Then he turned and stared at the bed. He gave a shriek and swayed a moment before falling to the floor in a dead faint.
“God Almighty!” Drummond said in a strangled voice.
Pitt felt his stomach lurch, but he went forward and stood by the side of the bed staring down at it.
Sholto Byam and Frederick Anstiss lay side by side in the big four-poster, both naked. Anstiss was drenched in blood, his throat cut from side to side, his head lying awkwardly at a half angle, his eyes wide in horror. Byam was beside him, more composed, as if he had expected death, even welcomed it, and his haggard features were ironed out, all the anguish gone at last. A broad-bladed knife lay beside him and both his wrists were gashed. The surrounding area of the bed was dark red with deep-soaked blood, as if once the act was done he had not moved but lain there almost at peace while his life poured away.
Somewhere behind them in the doorway a housemaid was screaming hysterically over and over again, but the footman was incapable of helping her. There was a sound of running feet.
On the pillow beside Byam’s head was a letter addressed not to Drummond but to Pitt. He reached over and picked it up.
By now you probably know the truth. Micah Drummond told me you had found the other half of the letter to me, and you know it was not Laura who wrote it, but Frederick. Laura did not love me, poor woman. I will never forget the night she came and found Frederick and me together, in bed.
Many women might have kept such a secret, but she would not. He and I killed her, and gave out the story that it was an accident. We kept the suicide idea in case anyone did not believe that she had slipped. It was better than the truth, and of course it was what I told Drummond when that devil Weems began to blackmail me.
But when he tried it on Frederick it was a different thing—the letter was in Frederick’s hand, and when Weems realized that, however he did, perhaps he had some letter or agreement to meet, then of course Frederick had to kill him. Weems knew the truth, not only about us, but presumably he guessed we had killed Laura as well.
Whether or not Frederick would have betray
ed me when he was arrested, I don’t know—and perhaps it hardly matters now. I have loved him all these years, and he professed to love me—that he could have blackmailed me for the African loans and corrupted the best thing I did is beyond my ability to bear, or to forgive.
He has ruined me, and all I believed in, both love and honor. I shall see that he dies with such a scandal London will never forget it.
There is nothing more to be said, this is the end of it all.
Sholto Byam
Pitt passed it across to Drummond.
Drummond read it slowly then looked up, his face ashen.
“God, what a mess.”
Beyond the doorway Waterson, gray-faced, was standing like a man stricken. Someone had taken the housemaid away. The footman was still on the floor.
“You’d better go and tell Lady Byam,” Pitt said quietly. “It will come better from you than anyone else. I’ll clear up here.”
Drummond hesitated only a moment, guilt, realization and pity fighting in him.
“There’s nothing else to do,” Pitt assured him. “It is all finished here—we must care for the living now.”
Drummond took his hand and squeezed it fiercely for a moment, wringing it so hard he bruised the flesh, then swung around on his heel and went out.
Pitt turned back to the bed, and very gently pulled up the bedspread to cover the faces of the dead.
Now in bookstores …
the new Charlotte and Thomas Pitt mystery,
FARRIER’S LANE
by Anne Perry.
Published by Fawcett.
Read on to Chapter One of FARRIER’S LANE….
1
“ISN’T HE SUPERB?” Caroline Ellison whispered to her daughter Charlotte. “He conveys so much feeling with the simplest word or a gesture!”
They were side by side in the red plush box in the theater in the semidarkness. It was late autumn and since there was no heating the air was cold. By the end of the first act the press of the crowd had warmed the stalls, but up here in the first tier of boxes it was different. The movement of applause and the stamping of feet then had helped, but now the drama was tense again, and the buzz of excitement shivery.
