Read Online Bethlehem Road by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

those as well.” He sighed. “What have you found, Pitt? Is there anything personal?”
    “Not so far, sir. He seems to have been an unremarkable man, successful in business, but I can’t find anything to inspire hatred, much less murder. His partner Verdun is a civilized, moderate man who deals in suburban properties, more for something to do than for profit.”
    Drummond’s face showed imminent criticism.
    “I’ve got the accounts,” Pitt said quickly. “There’s nothing shown except ordinary property transactions in respectable residential areas. If they’re dealing in slum properties as well, they have a perfect set of alternative books.”
    “Likely?” Drummond asked.
    “Not in my opinion.”
    “Well, have someone look up Verdun and see if he is what he says. See if he gambles, or keeps women.”
    Pitt smiled grimly. “I will, but I’ll lay any odds you like that he doesn’t.”
    Drummond’s eyebrows rose. “How about your job? Would you lay that? And mine, if we don’t clear this up.”
    “I don’t think we’ll do it through Charles Verdun, sir.”
    “What about political motive? What did the Home Secretary say?”
    Pitt summed up what he’d learned from Hamilton’s superior, watching Drummond’s face gradually fall.
    “A random victim?” he mused unhappily. “Mistaken for someone else, someone more important? God, I hope not; that would mean the murderer might try again!”
    “Back to anarchists,” Pitt said, rising. “I’d better go and see what I can find out as the members leave the House of Commons—who spoke to Hamilton last, what time, and if they saw anyone approach him.”
    Drummond pulled out a gold watch from his waistcoat. “You might have a long wait.”
    Pitt stood in the cold at the north end of Westminster Bridge for over an hour and a half before he saw the first figures coming out of the House of Commons and turning towards the river. By then he had eaten two hot pies and a plum duff, watched innumerable courting couples walk arm in arm along the embankment and two drunks singing “Champagne Charlie” out of time with each other, and his fingers were numb.
    “Excuse me, sir?” He stepped forward.
    Two members stopped, scowling at being accosted by a stranger. They noted his bulging pockets and woolen muffler and made to walk on.
    “Bow Street Police, sir,” Pitt said sharply. “Inquiring into the murder of Sir Lockwood Hamilton.”
    They were shaken, reminded forcibly of something they had preferred not to consider. “Fearful business,” one said. “Fearful!” the other echoed him.
    “Did you see him yesterday evening, sir?”
    “Ah, yes, yes I did. Didn’t you, Arbuthnot?” The taller turned to his companion. “Don’t know what time it was. As we were leaving.”
    “I believe the House rose at about twenty minutes past eleven o’clock,” Pitt offered.
    “Ah yes,” the stockier and fairer man agreed. “Probably so. Saw Hamilton as I was leaving. Poor devil. Shocking!”
    “Was he alone, sir?”
    “More or less; just finished speaking to someone.” The man’s eyes looked blank, benign. “Sorry, don’t know who. One of the other members. Said good night, or something of the sort, and walked off towards the bridge. Lives on the south side, you know.”
    “Did you see whether anyone followed him?” Pitt asked.
    The man’s face looked suddenly pinched as the reality hit him. It ceased to be an exercise in memory. A vivid picture forced itself on his inner mind; he realized he had witnessed what was about to become a murder. His years of composure and self-confidence fled, and he saw the vulnerability of the lone man on the bridge, stalked by death, as if it were his own. “Poor devil!” he said again, his throat tight, his voice constricted. “I rather think someone did, but I haven’t the slightest idea who. It was just the impression of a figure, a shadow as Hamilton started off across the bridge past the first light. I’m afraid