“No.”
Automatically she took bread, butter, cheese and rich, fruity pickle from the cupboard.
“Byam is still being blackmailed,” he went on thoughtfully.
“For money?” she asked, spreading the bread.
“Not directly, so far as I can see. According to Lady Byam he has changed his mind very radically over the government policy in lending moneys to certain small countries in the empire, in Africa. One of his longtime friends and colleagues called recently and they had a fearful quarrel. He accused Byam of having betrayed his principles. Byam is in a very poor state, sleeping badly and looks like a ghost.”
She stopped what she was doing, her hands in the air.
“Peter Valerius-” she said.
“Peter Valerius is blackmailing him?” Pitt asked with disbelief.
“No, no! He told me about venture capital.”
“What are you talking about? Why are you interested in venture capital, and what is it?”
“I’m not.” She took the kettle off the hob and poured the water over the tea, letting it steep. “He told me because honestly I think he’d tell anyone who would have the good manners to listen, or the inability to escape. It is a sort of money you can get, at a terrible usury, when no one else will lend you money and you are desperate. I mean industries and countries and the like, not little personal debtors.” She turned around to face him. It was not easy to explain because she understood it only very little herself. “If you have a big industry and you have run out of money, perhaps your costs have gone up and your profits have gone down, and your ordinary banker won’t help-that is someone like Byam-then you may go to someone who will lend you venture capital, at a very high rate of interest, and the price of a third of your company, forever-which may be where Anstiss comes in-maybe? But if you are desperate and will lose everything-perhaps you are a small country and your whole trade is tied up in one export- your people are starving…”
“All right,” he said quickly. “I understand. But I have no idea if Anstiss has anything to do with venture capital.”
“Well if that is what Byam is being blackmailed for, then it seems someone has.”
He bit into the bread and pickle, hungry in spite of the thoughts running faster and faster in his brain.
“I need to know a great deal more about Anstiss,” he said with his mouth full.
“Well where was he when Weems was killed?” she began, With one hand she poured his tea and passed him the mug.
“I don’t know-but I think it is past time I found out.” He ate the rest of his bread and held out his hand for the tea. As soon as he was finished he meant to go and find this Peter Valerius. He needed to know if Anstiss had profited from Byam’s Treasury decision. “Where does Valerius work?” he asked her. “He does work, I suppose?”
“I haven’t any idea. But Jack probably knows. You could ask him.”
Pitt stood up. “I will.” He kissed her quickly. “Thank you.”
He took a hansom to Emily’s house and was fortunate that Jack was at home. From him he learned where to find Peter Valerius, and by quarter to five he was striding along Piccadilly with him, dodging around slower pedestrians, leaping off the pavement over the gutter and back again, avoiding hooves and carriage wheels with considerable skill, coattails flying.
“Of course that is off the top of my head,” Valerius warned cheerfully. “You will want some sort of documentary proof.”
“If I’m right, I will,” Pitt replied, increasing his pace to keep up.
Valerius jumped back onto the curb with alacrity. A horse swerved sideways and the coachman shouted a string of ungentlemanly imprecations at him.
“My apologies!” Valerius called over his shoulder. He grinned at Pitt. “Anstiss is the prime mover behind a lot of financial dealings, and the major shareholder in a few merchant banking interests. He, and his associates, stand to make a fortune, and not a small one, if certain African interests have to go to venture capital. A single year’s interest repayments alone would keep most of us for life, let alone a third share in the company and all its profits in perpetuity.” His face tightened and a look of anger close to hatred came into his eyes. “Never mind they are robbing blind a small country of people caught in a vise of borrowing, price fixing, and trade wars, and not sophisticated or powerful enough to fight.”
Pitt caught him by the arm and pulled him back as he was about to launch off the pavement into a cross street almost under the hooves of a hansom.
“Thank you,” Valerius said absently. “It’s one of the most monstrous damned crimes going on, but no one seems to care.”
Pitt had no argument to offer and no comfort. He refused to make some polite platitude.
The hansom passed and they crossed the street, Pitt watching both ways for traffic, and just reaching the far side as an open carriage swept by at a reckless speed.
“Idiot,” Pitt said between his teeth at the driver.
“It will be traceable.” Valerius went on with his own train of thought. “I’ll get you the proof.” He lengthened his step yet again, his coat flying. Meandering pedestrians who were simply taking the air and showing off moved aside with more haste than dignity, a dandy with a monocle muttering under his breath and two pretty women stopping to stare with interest.
“Thank you,” Pitt said with appreciation. “Can you bring it to me in Bow Street?”
“Of course I can. How long will you be there?”
“Tonight?”
Valerius grinned. “Of course tonight. In a hurry, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll see you in Bow Street.” And with a wave he swung around and raced off down Half Moon Street and disappeared.
With a new sense of hope Pitt made his way to Bow Street.
Once there he went straight up to Micah Drummond’s office and knocked on the door. As soon as he was inside he knew something was wrong. Drummond looked profoundly unhappy. His face was pale, his features drawn, and there was fury in every angle of his body.
“What is it?” Pitt said immediately. “Byam?”
“No, Latimer, the swine. The man is a complete outsider!”
From a man like Drummond that was the ultimate condemnation. To be an outsider was to be lost beyond recall. Pitt was taken aback.
“What has he done?” His mind raced through possibilities and came up with nothing damning enough to warrant such contempt.
Drummond was staring at him.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“I think I may be close to the end of the Weems case,” Pitt replied. “It’s nothing to do with Latimer.”
“I didn’t think it was.” Drummond turned back to the window. “Damn him!”
“Is it about the bare-knuckle fighting?”
Drummond turned around, his face lifting with hope. “What bare-knuckle fighting?”
“He gambles on it. That’s where his money comes from-not from Weems. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No you didn’t! Don’t be this ingenuous, Pitt. Nor did you tell me about Urban’s moonlighting at a music hall in Stepney, and having possible stolen works of art.”
Pitt felt a sudden coldness inside him. “Then how do you know?”
“Because Latimer told me, of course!”
“About Urban? Why, for-” But before he could finish the questions, he understood. The Inner Circle. Latimer had showed his ultimate obedience by betraying Urban, becoming his executioner for the brotherhood. Drummond knew it, and this was the reason for his rage. “I see,” Pitt said aloud.
“Do you?” Drummond demanded, his face white, his eyes blazing. “Do you? It’s that hellish Inner Circle.”
“I know.”
For moments they stood staring at each other, then Drummond’s eyes dulled into misery again and the fire went out of him.
