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time and knocked on the door to Drummond’s office. His memory went back to a few months ago, when Dudley Athelstan had occupied it. Pitt had found Athelstan pompous and, with the insecurity of the socially ambitious, never sure which master to serve. Athelstan had resented Pitt’s impertinence, his untidiness—but above all his impudence in marrying Charlotte Ellison, so much his social superior.
    Drummond was a totally different man, having sufficient family background and private means not to care about either. He called his permission to enter.
    “Good afternoon, sir.” Pitt looked round the room, full of mementos of past cases, many of which he had worked on himself; tragedies and resolutions, darkness and light.
    “Come in, Pitt.” Drummond waved him towards the fire. He fished among papers on his desk, all handwritten in copperplate of varying degrees of legibility. “Got a few reports, nothing very helpful so far; a cabby crossing the bridge who noticed nothing at a quarter past midnight, except perhaps a prostitute at the north side, and a group of gentlemen coming up from the House of Commons. Hamilton could have been one of them; we’ll have to ask around tonight when the House rises. No good looking now. We’ll find out which members live on the south side of the river and might have gone home that way. Got a man on it now.”
    Pitt stood by the fire, the warmth delicious up the backs of his legs. Athelstan always used to monopolize it.
    “I suppose we have to face the remote possibility it was one of his colleagues?” he said with regret.
    Drummond looked up sharply, instant disagreement on his face. Then reason overtook distaste. “Not yet, but it may have to be considered,” he conceded. “First we’ll look at personal or business enemies and—God help us—the possibility it was some lunatic.”
    “Or anarchists,” Pitt added glumly, rubbing his hands down the back of his coat where the fire warmed it.
    Drummond regarded him, a bleak and not unsympathetic humor in his eyes. “Or anarchists,” he agreed. “Unpleasant as it is, we had better pray it is personal. Which is the line you must pursue today.”
    “What have we so far?” Pitt asked.
    “Two cabbies, the one at a quarter past midnight who noticed nothing, one at approximately twenty past, seen by Hetty Milner, who also says he saw nothing; but since Hetty saw him immediately before she spoke to Hamilton, that doesn’t mean much. Poor devil must have been there then, possibly before. But it shouldn’t be hard to establish what time he left the House, so we have a space of twenty minutes or so. Might help with determining where suspects were, but I doubt it: if it was family they may well not have committed the crime personally.” He sighed. “We’ll probably be looking at movement of money, bank withdrawals, sales of jewelry or pictures, acquaintances of unusual nature.” He rubbed his hands over his face wearily, only too aware of the closing of ranks that scandal inspired among the upper classes. “Look into his business affairs, will you, Pitt? Then you’d better see what political matter he was involved with. There’s always Irish Home Rule, slum clearance, poor law reform—heaven knows what else someone might feel violent about.”
    “Yes sir.” It was what he would have done anyway. “I suppose we’ve got someone checking on all the known agitators?”
    “Yes, all that is being done. At least we’ve got only a narrow space of time to cover. Might get something from the other people who came running when Hetty Milner screamed. So far they’ve given us nothing useful, but memory does sometimes dredge up a face or a sound afterwards, something seen out of the corner of the eye.” Drummond pushed forward a sheet of paper with a name and address on it. “That’s Hamilton’s business partner. You could start with him. And Pitt ...”
    Pitt waited.
    “For heaven’s sake be tactful!”
    Pitt smiled. “I assume