Anne Perry - Belgrave Square

“Not surprisingly,” Pitt said dryly. “Murdered men are often unpopular, except with a few who love notoriety. But people ’round here won’t want that kind of attention; most especially those who actually did know him. His friends won’t want to own such a man for acquaintance now, and his enemies will make themselves as close to invisible as they can. As you say, the word will have gone out. We’d better go inside and have a look at the rooms where it happened.”

“Right sir,” Innes said, leading the way. The front of the house appeared to be an apothecary’s shop such as one might drop into to purchase a headache remedy or other such nostrum, but past the rows of dusty jars and bottles there was another door, much heavier and stronger than would be usual in such a place. At present it was unlocked and swung open easily on oiled hinges, but when they were through into the carpeted passage Pitt looked back and noticed the powerful bolts. This was certainly not an entrance anyone would force without several men behind a battering ram. William Weems had been well prepared to defend himself, it would seem. So who had gained his confidence sufficiently to obtain entry, and when Weems was alone?

The office was up the stairs along a short passage and had a pleasant window overlooking Cyrus Street. It was a room perhaps ten feet by twelve and furnished with an oak desk with several drawers, a large, comfortable chair behind it, three cabinets with drawers and cupboards, and a chair for visitors. The door on the far side led presumably to the kitchen and living quarters.

Weems had apparently been sitting in the chair behind the desk when he was shot. There was a large amount of blood spattered around and already in the heat a couple of flies had settled.

On the walls were three sporting prints which might or might not have been of value, a very handsome, brightly polished copper warming pan, and the hackbut Innes had mentioned in the morgue. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, the metal butt engraved, the flaring barrel smoothed to a satin-fine gleam. Pitt reached out and took it down very carefully, holding it in his handkerchief and from the underneath, not to smudge any marks there might be on it, any threads of fabric, smears of blood, anything at all that would be of use. He looked at it carefully, turning it over and over. It was beautifully balanced. He peered down the barrel and sniffed it. It smelled of polish. Finally he held it as if to fire it, and tightened his finger, pointing it at the floor. Nothing happened. He pulled hard.

“The firing pin has been filed down,” he said at last. “Did you know that?”

“No sir. We didn’t touch it.” Innes looked surprised. “Then I suppose it can’t’ve bin that what killed ’im!”

Pitt looked at it again. The blind pin was not shiny. It had not been touched with a file or rasp recently. There was a dark patina of time over it.

“Not possible,” he said, shaking his head. “This is strictly ornamental now.” He replaced it on the wall where he had found it. On the shelf below there were half a dozen little boxes, three of metal, one of soapstone, one of ebony, one of ironwood. He opened them all one by one. Three were empty, one had two small shotgun pellets in it, the other two each had a few grains of gunpowder.

“I wonder when that was last full,” he said thoughtfully. “Not that it helps us a lot without a gun.” He looked down and saw with surprise the excellent quality of the carpet, which was soft and dyed in rich, muted colors. He squatted down and turned over the corner and saw what he expected, dozens of tiny hand-tied knots to every inch.

“Find something?” Innes asked curiously.

“Only that he spent a lot of money on his carpets,” Pitt replied, straightening up. “Unless, of course, he took it from someone in repayment of a debt.”

Innes’s eyebrows shot up. “ ’round ’ere? No one who borrows from the likes o’ Weems ’as carpets at all, let alone ones what are worth sellin’.”

“True,” Pitt agreed, straightening up. “Unless he had a different class of customer, a gentleman who got in over his head gambling, perhaps, and Weems had a fancy for the carpet.”

“That’d mean Weems went to ’is ’ome,” Innes pointed out. “An’ I can’t see any gentleman bein’ pleased ter entertain Weems in ’is ’ome, can you sir?”

Pitt grinned. “No I can’t. You may as well know, the reason the powers that be are so concerned in this case is that our Mr. Weems indulged in a little blackmail as well. He had some very important connections, through a relative who was a servant, we are told.”

“Well now.” Innes looked interested, and there was a flash of satisfaction in his sharp, intelligent face. “I was wondering, but I thought as maybe you wasn’t able ter say. We don’t usually get cases like this taken from us. After all, who cares about one usurer more or less? But a blackmailer is different. You reckon it were someone ’E ’ad the squeeze on as shot ’im?”

“I hope not. It’s going to be very embarrassing if it is,” Pitt said with sudden vehemence. “But it’s certainly not impossible.”

“An’ I suppose you can’t say as who it is?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“Thought so.” Innes was quite resigned and there was no resentment in him. He knew he had been explained to as far as Pitt was permitted, perhaps further, and he appreciated that. “Either way, some things come ter mind,” he said thoughtfully. “It were someone as ’E weren’t frit of as was ’ere, an’ ’E should ’a bin frit out of ’is skin of someone important ’E ’ad the black on.”

Pitt grinned. “Whoever it was, he should have been frit to death!” he said wryly.

Innes flashed him a look of bright candor. “ ’Alf o’ me ’opes we don’t catch the poor beggar. I ’ate blackmailers even more than I ’ate moneylenders. Vermin all o’ them.”

Pitt agreed tacitly. “Where was he?”

“In the chair be’ind the desk, like ’E were talking ter someone, or takin’ money. ’E weren’t expectin’ it, that’s fer sure. Nothin’ upset, chair weren’t knocked over-”

Pitt stared at the scene for several moments, trying to visualize the large, complacent Weems sitting back in his chair staring at whoever it was standing roughly where Pitt was now. He had almost certainly come prepared to kill. Hardly anyone possessed a gun, let alone carried one about with them. Perhaps the meeting had been civil to begin with, then suddenly it had changed, either a quarrel, or else simply the visitor had reached the point where he no longer needed to pretend, and he had taken the gun from its concealment and fired it. Except what could conceal a gun large enough to fire that spray of shot?

He looked around. All the drawers were closed, nothing was out of order, nothing crooked, nothing broken.

As if reading his thoughts Innes shook his head.

“If they searched they did it very careful,” he observed.

“Have you looked yet?” Pitt asked.

“Not yet. We went fer witnesses first. ’Oped someone might ’ave seen someone comin’ or goin’, but if they did they in’t sayin’.”

“What about this errand runner-Miller?”

“Nothin’ so far, but I’ll try again.”

“Better keep at it, might turn up something. Meantime we’ll look. Weems’s papers might be interesting, not only for what they say, but for what they don’t.”

“Reckon the murderer took ’is own records?” Innes said hopefully.

“Seems a likely thing to do,” Pitt assented, opening the first drawer in the desk.

Innes began on the cabinet nearest him and they worked systematically for over an hour. Innes found the general accounts full of names and addresses of local people, together with neatly written records of money borrowed and repayments made, with exorbitant interest, down to the last farthing, with dates and amounts all scrupulously noted, plus balance outstanding and the date on which it was due, and the ever increasing usury.