knowing Urban’s salary, and that he was lying over something, he found it deeply depressing. Was Urban so wooed by loveliness, so caught by the collector’s fever, that he had borrowed from Weems, and then realized he could never hope to repay? Or was there something even uglier: had he obtained the money in some other way, dishonest, even corrupt, and Weems had learned of it and blackmailed him?
Pitt lengthened his stride along the hot, dusty street, passing an errand boy whistling between his teeth, swinging a bag, then two old women standing in the middle of the footpath, heads together, gossiping. At the end of the street he came into the main thoroughfare and stood waiting for the omnibus, his mind moving from one unhappy thought to another.
He knew what he must do next, and he chose a series of omnibuses because he was in no hurry to get there. Before coming to Bow Street, Urban had worked in Rotherhithe, south of the river. Now Pitt must go to his old station and ask his colleagues about him, what manner of man he was, and try to read between the loyalty of their answers the truth of what they knew, or suspected. He would have to look through his previous cases, such as were distinctly his. It was not so clear-cut with uniformed men. And lastly he would have to find the people on the edge of the criminal underworld who had most dealings with the police and ask them, learn what Urban’s reputation had been, see if he could find there the ends of the threads which would lead him to the money that had bought those wild and lovely pictures.
He stopped and had a brief luncheon at a public house, but his thoughts were too much engrossed in Urban to enjoy it. By two o’clock he was in the Rotherhithe police station, explaining his inquiries to the superintendent, a large man with a lugubrious smile and a hot untidy office full of piles of paper. In a patch of sun on the floor a small ginger-and-white kitten lay stretched out asleep on a cushion, every now and then its body twitching in some ecstatic dream.
The superintendent’s eyes followed Pitt’s.
“Found ’im in the alley,” he said with a smile. “Poor little beggar was starvin’ an’ sickly. Don’t think ’e’d ’ave lasted more’n another day or two. ’ad ter take ’im in. Need a mouser anyway. Can’t ’ave the station overrun wi’ the little beggars. ’e’ll be good fer that when ’e’s a bit bigger. Thinks about it already, by the looks of ’im.”
The kitten gave another twitch and made a little sound in its sleep.
“What can I do for yer?” the superintendent said in a businesslike manner, pushing a pile of papers off a chair to make a place for Pitt to sit down. The cushion remained for the kitten. Pitt had no objection.
“Samuel Urban,” Pitt replied, looking at the little animal.
“Engagin’ little beggar, in’t ’e?” the superintendent said mildly.
“What did you think of him?”
“Sam Urban? Liked ’im. Good policeman.” His face puckered with anxiety. “Not in trouble, is ’e?”
“Don’t know,” Pitt admitted, looking at the kitten stretching out and curling its claws into the cushion, pulling the threads.
“Hector!” the superintendent said amiably. “Don’t do that.” The kitten disregarded him totally and kept on kneading the cushion. “Taken from ’is mother too early, poor little devil,” the superintendent continued. “Suckles on my shirts till I’m wet through. What’s ’E supposed to ’ave done, Urban, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Borrowed money from a usurer, maybe,” Pitt replied.
The superintendent pushed out his lip. “Not like ’im,” he said thoughtfully. “Always careful with ’is money, that I know of. Never threw it around. In fact I sometimes wondered what ’E did wif it. Never drank nor spent it on women, like some. Didn’t gamble, so far as I ’eard. What’s ’E got in debt for? Inherited an ’Ouse from ’is uncle, so it in’t that. In fact that’s why ’E moved to Bow Street-’ouse is in Bloomsbury. Are you sure about this debt?”
“No,” Pitt admitted. “His name was on the usurer’s books for a very considerable sum. Urban denies it.”
“I don’t like the way you say ‘was.’ You mean the usurer is dead?”
“Yes.” There was no use trying to deceive the big, good-natured man. He might take in stray kittens, but he was far from naive when it came to judging men. Pitt had seen the clear, clever eyes under the lazy stare.
“Murdered?”
“Yes. I’m following up all the debtors-or those that the lists say are debtors. So far all of them on the first list admit to owing very small amounts. Those on the second list deny it. But he was known to be a blackmailer…” He left the question open, an unfinished sentence.
“And you think he may have been blackmailing Urban?”
“I don’t know-but I need to.”
The kitten stretched, rolled over and curled up in a ball, purring gently.
“Can’t ’elp you,” the superintendent said with a little shake of his head. “ ’E weren’t always a popular man. Too free with ’is opinions, even when they wasn’t asked for, an’ got some airy-fairy tastes what in’t always appreciated by all. But that’s by the way. It’s no crime.”
“May I see the records of his main cases, and speak to a few of his colleagues?”
“O’ course. But I know what goes on in my station. You won’t find anything.”
And so it proved. Pitt spoke to several of the men who had worked with Urban in the six years he had been in Rotherhithe, and found a variety of opinions from affection to outright dislike, but none of them saw in him either dishonesty or any failure of prosecution that was not easily accounted for by the circumstances. Some considered him arrogant and were not afraid to say so, but gave not the slightest indication they thought him corrupt.
Pitt left in the warm, still early evening and came back over the river north again on the long journey home. He felt tired and discouraged, and underneath was a growing unease. The Rotherhithe station had offered nothing about Urban that suggested he was dishonest. Everything Pitt learned created the outline of a diligent, ambitious, somewhat eccentric man respected by his colleagues but not often liked, a man whom no one knew closely, and whom a few conservative, small-visioned men were tacitly pleased to see apparently in trouble.
And Pitt was sure in his own mind that Urban was concealing something to do with Weems’s death, and it was something Pitt had said which had made the connection in his mind. But was it the questions about Weems and his debtors, or could it be as it appeared, the extraordinary case of Horatio Osmar and his unaccountable release by Carswell?
He was obliged to travel on several omnibuses, changing at intervals as each one turned from his route back to Bloomsbury. At one change he saw a tired, grubby-faced little girl selling violets, and on impulse he stopped and bought four bunches, dark purple, nestling in their leaves, damp and sweet smelling.
He strode along his own street rapidly, but with an unfamiliar mixture of emotions. It was habit steeped in years that his home was the sweetest place he knew. All warmth and certainty was there, love that did not depend upon gifts or obedience, did not matter whether he was clever, amusing or elegant. It was the place where he gave the best of himself, and yet was not afraid he would be rejected for the worst; where he strove to be wise, to blend honesty with kindness, to make patience natural, to protect without domineering.
Nothing had changed in the deep core of it, but perhaps his perception had deluded him into believing Charlotte was happier than was true. Some of the bright peace of it was dulled.
He opened the door and as soon as he was inside took off his boots and hung up his jacket on the coat hook. Then he went with a nervousness that startled him, stocking footed, along to the kitchen.
It was bright and sweet smelling as always, clean linen on the airing rack suspended from the ceiling, wooden table scrubbed bone pale, blue-and-white china on the dresser and the faint aroma of fresh bread in the air. Jemima was sitting at the table solemnly buttering bread for Daniel. He was watching her and holding on to the jar of raspberry jam, prepared to give it to her only when she had met his exacting standards and there was butter right to every corner.
Charlotte was dressed in floral muslin with a long lace-edged apron on, her sleeves rolled up and her hands in the sink preparing fresh vegetables. There was a pile of shelled peas in a dish on the table near Jemima, and a little heap of empty pods on a newspaper ready to be thrown out.
Charlotte smiled at him, took out the last of the carrots and dried her hands.
“Hello Papa,” Jemima said cheerfully without stopping her task.
“Hello Papa,” Daniel echoed, still holding on to the jam jar.
Pitt touched them both gently but his eyes never left Charlotte. He held up the violets.
“They’re not an apology,” he said guardedly.
She looked totally innocent, mystified. “For what?” she asked with wide eyes, then betrayed herself by a quiver of laughter at the corners of her mouth. She buried her nose in their damp fragrance and breathed in with a sigh. “Thank you. They smell wonderful.”
