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There were no hansoms about at this hour, and Pitt walked briskly back, turning left down Stangate Road to Westminster Bridge Road, across the bridge itself and past the statue of Queen Boadicea, the huge tower of Big Ben to his left, and the gothic mass of the Houses of Parliament. On the Embankment he found a cab to take him to the Bow Street Police Station, just off the Strand. It was a little before three o'clock in the morning.
The duty constable looked up and his face took on an added gravity.
'Any reports?' Pitt asked.
'Yes sir, but nothin' a lot o' use so far. Can't find no cabby, not yet. Street girls in't sayin' nothin', 'cept 'Etty Milner, an' she can't 'zactly take it back now. Reckon as she would if she could. Got one gent as said 'e walked over the bridge abaht ten minutes afore 'Etty yelled, and there weren't nobody 'angin' on the lamppost then, as' 'e remembers. But then o' course 'e prob'ly weren't lookin'. 'Nother gent abaht the same time said 'e saw a drunk, but took no notice. Don't know if it were poor 'Amilton or not. An' o' course Fred sellin' 'ot pies down by the steps to the river, but 'e 'adn't seen no one, 'cause 'e's the wrong end o' the bridge.''
'Nothing else?'
'No sir. We're still lookin'.'
'Then I'll kip down in my office for a couple of hours,' Pitt replied wearily. There was no point in going home. 'Then I'll go and see Mr. Drummond.'
'Want a cup o' tea, sir?'
'Yes, I'm perished.'
'Yes sir. It in't goin' ter get no better, sir.'
'No, I know that. Bring me the tea, will you.'
'Right you are, sir. Comin' up!'
At half past six Pitt was in another cab, and by quarter to seven he stood in a quiet street hi Knightsbridge, where the spring sun was clear and sharp on the paving stones and the
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only sounds were those of kitchen maids beginning their breakfast preparations and footmen collecting newspapers to be ironed and presented to their masters at table. Fire grates had long since been cleaned out, blacked, and relit and carpets sanded and swept so that they smelled fresh.
Pitt climbed the steps and knocked on the door. He was tired and cold and hungry, but this news could not wait.
A startled manservant opened the door and regarded Pitt's lanky disheveled figure, clothes askew, knitted muffler wound twice round his neck, unruly hair too long and ill-acquainted with barbers' skill. His boots were immaculate, soft leather, highly polished, a present from his sister-in-law, but his coat was dreadful, pockets stuffed with string, a pocketknife, five shillings and sixpence, and fifteen pieces of paper.
'Yes sir?' the man said dubiously.
'Inspector Pitt from Bow Street,' Pitt told him. 'I must see Mr. Drummond as soon as possible. A member of Parliament has been murdered on Westminster Bridge.'
'Oh.' The man was startled but not incredulous. His master was a senior commander of police, and alarms and excursions were not uncommon. 'Oh yes, sir. If you'll come in I'll tell Mr. Drummond you are here.'
Micah Drummond appeared ten minutes later, washed, shaved and dressed for breakfast, albeit somewhat hastily. He was a tall, very lean man with a cadaverous face distinguished by a handsome nose and a mouth that betrayed in its lines a quick and delicate sense of humor. He was perhaps forty-eight or forty-nine, and his hair was receding a trifle. He regarded Pitt with sympathy, ignoring his clothes and seeing only the weariness in his eyes.
'Join me for
