said that.
“Yes sir,” she said with an attempt at meekness which failed utterly. “Thank you, sir. An’ I won’t do it again, sir.”
He grunted doubtfully.
The kettle started to whistle and Charlotte made the tea and brought it to the kitchen table along with the bread and jam.
Joe ate almost before it was on his plate, and Gracie sat holding her steaming mug in her cold fingers, its warmth aching through her as life came back to her hands. She smiled across at Joe, and he smiled back for a moment before looking away.
“I had better find some dry clothes for you.” Charlotte looked dubiously at Joe. “Although I don’t know where from. And you will go to your bed,” she said to Gracie. “I’ll tell you when you can get up again.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Pitt sat on the edge of the table.
“Will you go an’ arrest ’im, sir?” Gracie asked.
“Of course.”
“In the morning?”
“No,” Pitt replied with distaste, hunching his shoulders and standing down off the table. “Now, before he takes alarm and runs off.”
“You’re not going alone!” Charlotte’s voice was sharp with fear.
“No, of course not,” he assured her. “But don’t wait up for me.” He kissed her quickly, bade good-night to Gracie and Joe, and went out of the kitchen door and along the hallway to collect his coat, hat and scarf.
It was the best part of an hour before Pitt and two constables took a hansom to Markham Square. It was late, bitterly cold, with a steady drizzle soaking everything, glistening on the footpaths and making hazy swirls of rain around the street lamps. Wet leaves clogged the gutters on the more gracious avenues and only a stray carriage disturbed the silence. Curtains were drawn and light escaped in a few thin cracks.
Pitt lifted the heavy knocker on the door. One constable stood by the areaway steps, just in case Harrimore should choose to come out that way and attempt to escape. The other was posted at the mews entrance.
After a considerable time a footman opened the door and regarded Pitt’s looming shape suspiciously.
“Yes sir?”
“Good evening. My name is Pitt, from the metropolitan police. I require to speak to Mr. Prosper Harrimore.”
“I’m sorry sir, but Mr. ’Arrimore has retired for the night. You’ll ’ave to come back in the morning.” He made as if to close the door again.
Pitt stepped forward, to the man’s alarm.
“That won’t do.”
“It’ll ’ave to do, sir! I told you, Mr. ’Arrimore ’as retired!”
“I have two constables with me,” Pitt said grimly. “Don’t oblige me to make a scene in the street.”
The door swung wide and the footman retreated, his face pale. Pitt followed him into the hall, beckoning to the constable by the area steps to follow him.
“You had better waken Mr. Harrimore and ask him to come downstairs,” he said quietly. “Constable, go with him.”
“Yes sir.” The constable obliged reluctantly and the footman, looking acutely unhappy, went up the broad wooden staircase.
Pitt waited at the bottom. Once or twice his eyes wandered around the walls looking at paintings, finely carved doorways, an elegant dado, but every few moments he looked back at the stair again. He saw the sticks in the hall stand and went over to them, examining them one by one. The third was beautifully balanced, with a silver top. It was a moment or two before he realized it was also a sword. Very slowly, feeling a little sick, he pulled it out. The blade was long and very fine, its steel gleaming in the light. It was clean all but for a tiny brown mark around the band where the blade met the hilt. The blood would have run down the shaft when he put it down to crucify Blaine.
He was facing the dining room door when he heard the sound above him and looked up sharply. Devlin O’Neil stood with his hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a dressing robe and looked anxious.
“What brings you here at this time of night, Inspector? Don’t say there’s been another murder.”
“No, Mr. O’Neil. I think you had better be prepared to look after your wife, and your grandmother-in-law.”
“Has something happened to Prosper?” He started down rapidly. “The butler told me he went out some time ago, and I didn’t hear him return. What was it? A street accident? How badly is he hurt?” He missed his step a little on the last stair and stumbled into Pitt, only catching himself by snatching at the newel at the bottom.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt went on, and some sense of real tragedy in his voice must have struck O’Neil. His face lost every vestige of color and he stared at Pitt without speaking. “I am afraid I have come to arrest Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt went on. “For the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane.”
“Oh God!” O’Neil slid as if his legs had buckled beneath him, and sat in a heap on the bottom stair, his head in his hands. “That’s—that’s—” Perhaps he had been going to say “impossible,” but some recollection or instinct stopped him, and the words died in his throat.
“I think you had better have the footman fetch you a stiff brandy, and then be prepared to look after Mrs. Harrimore and your wife,” Pitt said gently. “They are going to need you.”
