sensitive face, but there was strength and intelligence in it.
“With luck, sir, quite fair; without a witness of any sort, and if the man doesn’t attack anyone else, not great. But then if he is a madman, he will continue to behave in a way to draw attention to himself, and we will find him.”
“Yes. Yes of course.” Sir Garnet’s hands closed on the cane. “I suppose you have no ideas as yet?”
“No sir. We’re working through the obvious possibilities: business rivalry, political enemies.”
“Lockwood was hardly important enough to earn political enemies.” Royce frowned. “Of course, there were a few people who lost promotions because he gained them, but that’s what one expects, for heaven’s sake. It’s true of anyone in public life.”
“Was there anyone who might have taken it especially hard?”
Royce thought for a moment, searching his memory. “Hanbury was pretty upset over the chairmanship of a parliamentary committee several years ago and seems to have held something of a grudge. And they quarreled over Home Rule—Hanbury was very much against it, and Lockwood was in favor. Rather felt he’d let the side down. But one doesn’t commit murder over such things.”
Pitt regarded the other man’s face in the lamplight. There was no shadow of double-mindedness or deception in it, no irony, no humor. He meant exactly what he said, and Pitt was obliged to agree with him. If the motive for murder was political, it lay in something far deeper than any issue they had touched on yet; it was a rivalry or a betrayal more personal, far more bitter than the question of Irish Home Rule or social reform.
Royce took his leave, and Pitt went upstairs to see Micah Drummond.
“Nothing of much use.” Drummond pushed a pile of papers across his desk towards Pitt. He looked tired, and there were dark patches under his eyes where the skin was thin and delicate. This was only the first day, but already he had felt the pressure, the anger of the people as horror turned to fear, and the alarm of those in power who knew the real danger.
“We’ve narrowed down the time,” he said. “He must have been killed between ten to midnight, when the House rose, and twenty past, when Hetty Milner found him. We ought to be able to cut it down further when we talk to the members when the House rises tonight.”
“Did we find any street vendors who’d seen him?” Pitt asked. “Or any who’d been around that area and hadn’t seen him, which would narrow things down?”
Drummond sighed and shuffled through the papers. “Flower seller said she didn’t see him. She knows him, so I presume she’s fairly reliable. Chap who sells hot pies on Westminster steps, Freddie something, but he saw nothing useful: half a dozen men, any one of whom could have been Hamilton, but he can’t swear it. Distinguished-looking fellow in good dark coat and silk hat with a white scarf, average height, gray at the temples—the streets round the bridge are crawling with them when the House rises!”
“Of course, it may not be Hamilton they were after,” Pitt said quietly.
Drummond looked up, his eyes hollow and anxious. “Yes, I had thought of that. God help us, if he was after someone else where do we even begin? It could be almost anyone!”
Pitt sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. “If it is a random attack against the government, and Hamilton just happened to be the one,” he said, “then it must be anarchists or revolutionaries of some sort. Don’t we have some knowledge of most of these groups?”
“Yes.” Drummond fished out a sheaf of papers from a drawer in the desk. “And I’ve got men looking into it, trying to trace the activities of known members of all of them. Some want to do away with the monarchy and set up a republic, others want total chaos—they’re fairly easy to spot: usually just hotheaded talk in pubs and on street corners. Some are foreign-inspired, and we’re chasing
“With luck, sir, quite fair; without a witness of any sort, and if the man doesn’t attack anyone else, not great. But then if he is a madman, he will continue to behave in a way to draw attention to himself, and we will find him.”
“Yes. Yes of course.” Sir Garnet’s hands closed on the cane. “I suppose you have no ideas as yet?”
“No sir. We’re working through the obvious possibilities: business rivalry, political enemies.”
“Lockwood was hardly important enough to earn political enemies.” Royce frowned. “Of course, there were a few people who lost promotions because he gained them, but that’s what one expects, for heaven’s sake. It’s true of anyone in public life.”
“Was there anyone who might have taken it especially hard?”
Royce thought for a moment, searching his memory. “Hanbury was pretty upset over the chairmanship of a parliamentary committee several years ago and seems to have held something of a grudge. And they quarreled over Home Rule—Hanbury was very much against it, and Lockwood was in favor. Rather felt he’d let the side down. But one doesn’t commit murder over such things.”
Pitt regarded the other man’s face in the lamplight. There was no shadow of double-mindedness or deception in it, no irony, no humor. He meant exactly what he said, and Pitt was obliged to agree with him. If the motive for murder was political, it lay in something far deeper than any issue they had touched on yet; it was a rivalry or a betrayal more personal, far more bitter than the question of Irish Home Rule or social reform.
Royce took his leave, and Pitt went upstairs to see Micah Drummond.
“Nothing of much use.” Drummond pushed a pile of papers across his desk towards Pitt. He looked tired, and there were dark patches under his eyes where the skin was thin and delicate. This was only the first day, but already he had felt the pressure, the anger of the people as horror turned to fear, and the alarm of those in power who knew the real danger.
“We’ve narrowed down the time,” he said. “He must have been killed between ten to midnight, when the House rose, and twenty past, when Hetty Milner found him. We ought to be able to cut it down further when we talk to the members when the House rises tonight.”
“Did we find any street vendors who’d seen him?” Pitt asked. “Or any who’d been around that area and hadn’t seen him, which would narrow things down?”
Drummond sighed and shuffled through the papers. “Flower seller said she didn’t see him. She knows him, so I presume she’s fairly reliable. Chap who sells hot pies on Westminster steps, Freddie something, but he saw nothing useful: half a dozen men, any one of whom could have been Hamilton, but he can’t swear it. Distinguished-looking fellow in good dark coat and silk hat with a white scarf, average height, gray at the temples—the streets round the bridge are crawling with them when the House rises!”
“Of course, it may not be Hamilton they were after,” Pitt said quietly.
Drummond looked up, his eyes hollow and anxious. “Yes, I had thought of that. God help us, if he was after someone else where do we even begin? It could be almost anyone!”
Pitt sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. “If it is a random attack against the government, and Hamilton just happened to be the one,” he said, “then it must be anarchists or revolutionaries of some sort. Don’t we have some knowledge of most of these groups?”
“Yes.” Drummond fished out a sheaf of papers from a drawer in the desk. “And I’ve got men looking into it, trying to trace the activities of known members of all of them. Some want to do away with the monarchy and set up a republic, others want total chaos—they’re fairly easy to spot: usually just hotheaded talk in pubs and on street corners. Some are foreign-inspired, and we’re chasing
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