Micah Drummond's lean figure was easily distinguished, and Pitt went to him. On the ground, laid in some semblance of decency, was the body of a man of late middle age, dressed in sober clothes of excellent quality, a silk hat beside him on the pavement. A white silk scarf had been cut with a knife, and lay a little to one side of his neck. It was soaked with blood, which also drenched his shirtfront, and there was a single fearful wound in his neck from one side right across to the other.
Pitt knelt and looked more closely. The face looked calm, as if he had not seen death coming. It was a narrow patrician face, not unpleasing, with a long nose, a good brow, the mouth perhaps a little lacking in humor but without cruelty. The man's hair was silver, but still thick. There were fresh flowers pale in the buttonhole.
Pitt looked away and up at Drummond.
'Vyvyan Etheridge, M.P.,' Drummond said quietly. He looked haggard, his eyes hollow, his mouth pinched. Pitt felt a quick stab of pity for him. Tomorrow all London, from the scrubwoman to the Prime Minister, would be calling for a solution to these outrages, stunned that members of the establishment, whether loved or hated, men considered safe above all others, could be killed silently and unseen within a few hundred yards of the Houses of Parliament.
Pitt stood up. ''Robbed?'' he asked, although he knew the answer.
72
'No,' Drummond replied, barely shaking his head. 'Gold watch, very expensive, ten gold sovereigns and about ten shillings in silver and coppers, a silver brandy flask, still full. Looks in this light like an extremely fine one, solid, not plate, and scrolled and engraved with his name. Gold cuff links, and he carried a cane with a silver top-all here. Oh, and French leather gloves.'
'No paper?'
'What?'
'No paper?' Pitt repeated, although he had little hope of it. He had to ask. 'I wondered if perhaps whoever did it left some note, a threat, a demand. Some sort of identification.'
'No. Only Etheridge's own papers: a couple of letters, calling cards, that sort of thing.'
'Who found him?'
'Young fellow over there.' Drummond gestured very slightly with his head. 'I think he was a little drunk then, but he's certainly sober enough now, poor devil. Name's Harry Rawlins.'
'Thank you, sir.' Pitt stepped off the curb and crossed the road to the group of people standing under the lamp opposite. It all had a dreamlike quality, as if he were reliving the first time. The night sky was the same vast cavern overhead, the smell of the air sharp and clean here on the river, the water gleaming black and satin bright beyond the balustrade, reflecting the lights all along the Embankment, the triple globes of the lamps, the outline of the Palace of Westminster black gothic against the stars. Only the little knot of people was different; there was no Hetty Milner, with her fair skin and gaudy skirts. Instead there was an off-duty cabby, a tap-room steward on his way home, a clerk and his lady friend, frightened and embarrassed, a railway porter from Waterloo Station just across the bridge, and a young man with blond hair falling over his brow, face now pallid as marble, his eyes staring with horror. He was well dressed, obviously a young gentleman out for a night on the town.
73
Every vestige of indulgence had fallen from him like a dropped garment, and he was appallingly sober.
'Mr. Rawlins.' Pitt had no need to ask which he was; his experience was written in his face. 'I am Inspector Pitt. Would you tell me exactly what happened, sir?'
Rawlins gulped. For a moment adequate speech eluded him. It was not some tramp he had found, but a man of his own class, tied up ludicrously, lounging against the lamp, silk hat askew, white scarf too tight under his chin, head lolling in a mockery of drunkenness.
Pitt waited patiently.
Rawlins coughed and cleared his throat. 'I was coming home from a late party with a few friends, don't you know, and-'
'Where?' Pitt interrupted.
'Oh-Whitehall Club, just over there.' He pointed vaguely towards the other end of the bridge beyond Boadi-cea. 'Off Cannon Street.'
'Where do you live,
