this time catching herself before she fell and continuing with her chin even higher.
Pitt went over to the other people and spoke to them, but none had seen anything, having come only when they heard Hetty's screams. There was nothing more he could do there, and he signaled to the mortuary carriage waiting at the far end of the bridge that it could come and remove the body. He had looked carefully at the scarf: the knot was such as anyone would tie without thinking, one end over the other, and then again. The man's weight had pulled it so tight it could not be undone. He watched them cut it with a knife and lower the corpse, then put it gently in the carriage, which drove away, a black shadow against the lights, clattering across the bridge and turning under the great statue of Boadicea in her chariot with the magnificent horses, and right along the Embankment till it disappeared. Pitt went back to the constable and the second uniformed man who had arrived.
Now came the duty that Pitt hated more than almost any other, except perhaps the final unwinding of the solution, the understanding of the passions and the pain that produced tragedy. He must go and inform the family, watch their shock and their grief and try to disentangle from their words, their gestures, the fleeting emotions on their faces any thread that might tell him something. So often it was some other pain or darkness, some other secret that had nothing to do with the crime, some ugly act or weakness that they would lie to protect.
It was not difficult to discover that Sir Lockwood Hamilton
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had lived at number seventeen Royal Street, about half a mile away, overlooking the garden of Lambeth Palace, the official London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
It was hardly worth seeking a cab; it would be a short walk, and on a clear night very pleasant-no doubt that was what Lockwood Hamilton himself had thought when he left the House. And it would give Pitt time to think.
Ten minutes later he was standing on the step rapping with the brass knob on the fine mahogany door. He waited several moments, then rapped again. Somewhere in the attics a light came on, then one on the second floor, and finally one in the hallway. The door opened, and a sleepy butler in hastily donned jacket blinked at him, realized he was a stranger, and drew breath to be indignant.
'Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Bow Street Station,' Pitt said quickly. 'May I come in?'
The butler sensed a certain gravity, perhaps a shadow of pity either in Pitt's face or voice, and his irritation dissolved.
'Is something wrong? Has there been an accident?'
'I'm sorry-it is more distressing than that,' Pitt replied, following him in. 'Sir Lockwood Hamilton is dead. I would omit the circumstances if I could, but it will be in the morning newspapers, and it would be better if Lady Hamilton were prepared for it, and any other members of the family.'
'Oh-' The butler gulped, took a moment to gain his composure while all sorts of horrors raced through his mind, scandals and disgrace. Then he straightened himself and faced Pitt. ' 'What happened?'' he said levelly, his voice very nearly normal.
'I am afraid he was murdered. On Westminster Bridge.'
'You mean . . . pushed over?' The man's face registered disbelief, as though the idea were too ludicrous to credit.
' 'No.'' Pitt drew a breath.''He was attacked with a razor, or a knife. I'm sorry. It will have been very quick, all over in a moment, and he will have felt very little. I think you had
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better have her maid call Lady Hamilton, and prepare some restorative; a tisane, or whatever you think best.'
' 'Yes-yes sir, of course.'' The butler showed Pitt into the withdrawing room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, and left him to turn up the gas lamps and find a seat for himself while he set about his unhappy task.
Pitt looked round the room; it would tell him something of the people who lived here and made it their home while Parliament was sitting. It was spacious, far less cluttered with furniture than was the fashion. There was less fringing on couches and chairs, fewer hanging crystals on the light fixtures, no antimacassars or samplers, no family portraits or photographs, except one rather severe sepia tint of an elderly woman in a widow's white cap, framed in silver. It was at odds with the rest of the room, a relic of another age. If this was Lady Hamilton's choice of decor, then the woman might be Sir Lockwood's relative, perhaps his mother.
