Bethlehem Road by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

Can’t imagine you’ll catch Lockwood’s killer in the list of semidetached houses in Primrose Hill, Kentish Town, or Highgate, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.”
    The neighborhoods he mentioned were all respectable suburban areas. “What about the East End?” Pitt asked. “No properties there?”
    Verdun was quicker than Pitt had thought. “Slum landlords? Suppose you were bound to think of that. No. But you can look through the books if you feel it’s your duty.”
    Pitt knew it would be pointless, but a clever auditor might find some discrepancy that would point to other books, other deals—even embezzlement? He profoundly hoped not. He would like Verdun to be exactly what he seemed.
    “Thank you, sir. Are you acquainted with Lady Hamilton?”
    “Amethyst? Yes, slightly. Fine woman. Very quiet. Imagine there’s some sadness there; no family, you know. Not that Lockwood ever mentioned it—very fond of her. Didn’t say much, but it was there. Knew that. Do, if you’ve ever cared for a woman yourself.”
    Pitt thought briefly of Charlotte at home, the warmth and the heart of his own life. “Indeed.” He seized the opportunity the subject of family offered him. “But there is a son by Sir Lockwood’s first marriage?”
    “Oh, Barclay, yes. Nice fellow. Didn’t see much of him. Never married—no idea why.”
    “Was he close to his mother?”
    “Beatrice? No idea. Didn’t get on with Amethyst, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Do you know why?”
    “No idea. Might have resented his father marrying again, I suppose. Bit silly, I always think. Should have been pleased for him he was happy, and Amethyst certainly made him an excellent wife. Supported him in his career, entertained his friends with skill and tact, and kept an excellent house. In fact I would say he was happier with her than with Beatrice.”
    “Maybe Mr. Barclay knew that, and resented it on his mother’s behalf,” Pitt suggested.
    Verdun’s face dropped. “Good heavens, man, you’re not going to suggest he waited twenty years, then suddenly one night crept up behind his father on Westminster Bridge and cut his throat for it, are you?”
    “No, of course not.” It was preposterous. “Is Mr. Barclay Hamilton reasonably well provided for financially?”
    “Happen to know that: inherited from his maternal grandfather. Not a lot, but comfortable. Nice house in Chelsea—very nice. Near the Albert Bridge.”
    “I suppose you have no idea if there’s any rival or enemy who might have wished Sir Lockwood harm? Any threats you know of?”
    Verdun smiled. “I’m sorry. If I did I should have mentioned it, distasteful as it is. After all, you can’t have chaps running around killing people, can you!”
    “No sir.” Pitt stood up. “Thank you for your help. If I may look at those records of yours? The last year or so should be sufficient.”
    “Of course. I’ll have Telford make a copy for you on that awful contraption, if you like. Might as well do something useful on it. Sounds like a hundred urchins in hobnail boots!”
    It was quarter past six when Pitt was finally ushered into the Home Secretary’s office in Whitehall. It was very large and very formal, and the officials in their frock coats and wing collars made it plain that it was a considerable favor granted in extraordinary circumstances that Pitt was even allowed across the threshold, let alone into a Cabinet Minister’s private office. Pitt attempted to straighten his tie, making it worse, and ran his fingers through his hair, which was no improvement either.
    “Yes, Inspector?” the Home Secretary said courteously. “I can give you ten minutes. Lockwood Hamilton was my Parliamentary Private Secretary, and very good at it, efficient and discreet. I am deeply sorrowed by his death.”
    “Was he ambitious, sir?”
    “Naturally. I should not promote a man who was indifferent to his career.”
    “How long had he held the position?”
    “About six