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far larger sums written beside them, this time without dates. But there were addresses and they were not in Clerkenwell or any area like it, but Mayfair, Belgravia and Hyde Park. His eye skipped over them again for the name of Sholto Byam, but he did not see it. It was a short list, too short to make such an error.
    “Got something?” Innes was looking at him with interest.
    “Another list,” Pitt replied. “It seems our Mr. Weems had a second and quite different clientele.”
    “Nobs?” Innes said quickly.
    “Looks like it,” Pitt agreed. “I’ve heard some of these names, and the addresses are certainly nobs. Not likely their servants—wouldn’t get the chance to spend this kind of money, for a start, and no usurer in his right mind would lend more than a few shillings to a servant.”
    “Interesting.” Innes stopped what he was doing.
    “Very.” Pitt looked at the list again. “Most of the amounts had already been repaid in full. There are only three outstanding: Addison Carswell of Curzon Street, Mayfair; Samuel Urban of Whitfield Street, Bloomsbury; and Clarence Latimer of Beaufort Gardens, Knightsbridge.” He stopped with a sick jolt. The name Samuel Urban was familiar. Surely it was a coincidence? The Urban he knew was an inspector of police in his own station of Bow Street! He could not possibly be in debt to a usurer like Weems. Not for the figure here, which was in excess of two years’ salary.
    “What is it?” Innes’s face was totally innocent. Obviously the names meant nothing to him.
    “One of these people is a colleague,” Pitt said slowly. “In my own station.”
    Innes looked stricken, his sharp features touched with both confusion and pity.
    “You mean one of us? Is it for much?”
    “It would take me two years to earn it,” Pitt replied unhappily. “And he’s the same rank as I am—in uniform.”
    “Oh my Gawd!” Innes was obviously shaken. “What about the other two? D’yer know them?”
    “No—but we’ll have to look into them.”
    “Maybe that’s why you were put in,” Innes said, pulling a face. “Maybe it in’t only ter protect the nobs, mebbe we got some tidying up of our own to do.”
    “Maybe.” Pitt folded the list and put it in his pocket. “But that isn’t all.”
    “D’yer find anything about the nob on ’ose account yer came?”
    “Not yet,” Pitt said, beginning to go through the drawer below the one he had just finished. “Let me know if youfind any more names on lists other than routine household accounts.”
    “Right.” And Innes also resumed his task.
    But three hours later when every piece of paper on the premises had been examined, and the office and the bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom facilities had been searched, even the mattress turned and the carpet lifted, they had found nothing more of interest. They finished in the kitchen, staring despondently into the dead fireplace.
    “Easy to see ’ow Mrs. Cairns just made ’is breakfast in ’ere an’ seein’ the light through there”—Innes gestured towards the office—“took it as ’E was up, called out it was ready, and then left ’im to it. I gather she weren’t overfond of ’im neither. She lives local, so I suppose she knew ’is reputation.”
    Pitt debated whether to see the woman himself, but decided Innes was efficient and he would not slight him by redoing his job.
    “Yes,” he agreed absently, staring at the wooden dresser with its racks of blue-and-white plates.
    “I can’t see anything but keeping our noses to the ground, and following up these lists,” Innes went on, his eyes on Pitt’s face.
    “Nor can I, for the moment.” Pitt made as if to look through the kitchen drawers one at a time, then abandoned it. He had already done it twice.
    “Find any traces o’ your nob?” Innes asked anxiously.
    “No …” Pitt replied slowly. “No I didn’t—and that is very strange, because he was sure I would: that is why I was sent for. Weems