memory as clearly as if he had seen her the instant before. There was passion in it, intensity violent enough to carry out her will, whatever it was, and also a keen and subtle intelligence, quite enough to foresee precisely this conversation.
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'Probably,' he agreed.
'Probably!'
'There are many possibilities.' Pitt stood still, staring at the lamppost. The body had been removed and had been laid out on the ground in an attempt at decency. He looked down at it, his mind taking in the details of clothing, the hands, the wound exactly like the two others', the pallid, terrible face with its strong nose and deep-set eyes, the hair that might have been gray or blond, silvery in the lamplight. 'It could be a madman,' he went on. 'Or anarchists, though I doubt that; or there may be some political plot afoot that we have had no whisper of as yet. Or it could be that this has nothing to do with the other two, just someone copying. It happens. Or it could be three murders, only one of which the murderer cares about, the other two meant to lead us astray.'
Drummond closed his eyes, as if his eyelids could keep out the fearfulness of the thought. He put his long hands up to cover his face for a moment before taking them away with a sigh.
'Dear God, I hope not! Could anyone be so . . .' But he could not find the word, and he let it go.
'Who is he?' Pitt asked.
' 'Cuthbert Sheridan.''
* 'Member of Parliament?''
'Yes. Oh yes, he's another member of Parliament. About thirty-eight or forty, married, with three children. Lives on the south side of the river, Baron's Court, off the Waterloo Road. Up-and-coming young backbencher, member for a constituency in Warwickshire. A bit conservative, against Home Rule, against penal reform; for better working conditions in mines and factories, better poor laws and child labor laws. Very definitely against any vote for women.' He looked up at Pitt and held his eyes steadily. 'So is almost everyone else.'
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'You know a lot about him,' said Pitt, surprised. 'I thought he was found only half an hour ago.'
'But it was one of his colleagues, following him to ask him to dine, who found him. So he knew him straightaway and told us. Poor fellow's pretty cut up. A Wallace Loughley, over there sitting on the ground by the mortuary coach. Somebody gave him a tot of brandy, but it would be a charity to see him as soon as you can and let the poor beggar go home.'
'What did the surgeon say?'
'Same as the others; at least, it seems so at first glance. A single wound, almost certainly delivered from behind. Victim doesn't seem to have suspected anyone or offered any resistance.'
'Odd.' Pitt tried to imagine it. 'If he was walking across the bridge, going home after a late sitting, he would presumably be moving at quite a good pace. Someone must have been going very briskly to overtake him. Wouldn't you think a man alone on the bridge, especially after two other murders, would at least turn round if he heard rapid footsteps approaching him from behind? I certainly would!'
'I would too,' Drummond agreed with a deepening frown. 'And I'd shout and probably run. Unless of course it was someone coming towards him, from the south side. But hi any case, I certainly wouldn't stand still and wait for someone to come close enough to strike me from either direction.' He let his breath out shakily. The air was so silent they could hear the water swirling round the piers of the bridge, and far away along the Embankment the rattle of a hansom cab. 'Unless, of course,' Drammond finished, 'it was someone I knew, and trusted.' He bit his lip. 'Certainly not some unknown madman.'
'What about Wallace Loughley?' Pitt raised his eyebrows. 'What do we know about him?'
'Nothing yet. But it won't be hard to find out. For a start I'd better see if he is who he says he is. I suppose it would
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be easy enough to claim. I certainly don't know all six hundred seventy members of Parliament by sight! I'd better not let him go home until someone has identified him, poor devil.'
