The Hyde Park Headsman (24 page)

“I thought you would.”

When they were gone and Gracie had finished the dishes Charlotte turned her attention to the duties of the day. There were various garments that needed special cleaning, in particular a shirt of Pitt’s which had a couple of fine bloodstains where he had nicked himself shaving and even afterwards a drop had fallen and made a mark. A little paste of starch, put on and left to dry before being brushed off, would see to that. Strong alcohol saturated in camphor would take out the oil stain on his jacket sleeve. Chloroform was better for grease. She would have to ascertain which it was.

And the black lace from the dress she had worn for the memorial service looked a little mildewed, and she must attend to that before returning it. She would use alcohol and borax. She refused to send to the butcher for bullock’s gall to put in warm water, which she had been advised was actually the best. There were also feathers to be recurled, which was a disaster done with curling tongs. It was far better to do them over an ivory knife handle. It was a tedious job, but necessary if she were to continue to borrow her relatives’ expensive and highly fashionable clothes. And of course she should not forget the black leather gloves which should be rubbed over with orange slice, then salad oil.

“Gracie,” she began, then realized that Gracie was not listening to her. “Gracie?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie turned slowly from where she had been staring at the dresser, her face pink.

“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.

“Nothing, ma’am,” Gracie said quickly.

“Good. Then will you heat the irons and I’ll start on the lace. I think you could do the master’s shirts and attend to those little blood spots—you know how.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And Gracie began obediently to pull out the flatirons and set them on the hob.

Charlotte went upstairs to fetch the feathers, and on her return, took out an ivory-handled knife. She only had two, one a butter knife and too small, the other a cake knife and just right

“Ma’am?” Gracie started.

“Yes?”

“Uh—oh—no, it doesn’t matter.” And she splashed out a liberal helping of alcohol to begin her task.

Charlotte started very carefully curling the feathers, then realized that Gracie was putting the alcohol on the bloodstains, not the grease, and had forgotten the camphor altogether.

“Gracie! What is the matter this morning? Something is wrong. Tell me what it is before you cause a disaster!”

Gracie’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes were full of fear, her whole face pinched with urgency. Still she could not find the words.

Charlotte felt a lurch of fear herself. She was extraordinarily fond of Gracie, perhaps she had not realized how much until this moment.

“What is it?” she said with more sharpness than she intended. “Are you ill?”

“No!” Gracie bit her lip. “I know summat about the gennelman wot goes inter the park arter girls.” She swallowed hard. “I got ter talkin’ ter one o’ them tarts in there one day.” Her eyes were brimming with misery. She was lying, at least in part, and she hated it “An’ she said as there was one gent wot liked ter beat women, beat ’em really ’ard, ’urt ’em bad. I reckon as mebbe that were Captain Winthrop. She said as ’e were big. An’ mebbe it were a pimp as done fer ’im. An’ the other gent knew it. Mebbe ’e saw it, or summat, an’ that’s why ’e got done too.”

For a moment Charlotte could think only of the likelihood of what Gracie said, and her spirits soared upwards.

“It could be,” she agreed quickly. “It could very well be!”

Gracie gave a sickly smile.

Then the further meaning struck Charlotte.

“Gracie! You’ve been out detecting again! Haven’t you?”

Gracie’s eyes lowered and she stared in silent misery at the floor, waiting for the blow to fall.

“You went to the park at night to find one of those women, didn’t you?”

Gracie did not deny it.

“You stupid child!” Charlotte exploded. “Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”

“They’re goin’ ter throw the book at the master if ’e don’t catch the ’Eadsman.” Gracie still did not look up.

Charlotte felt a stab of alarm, if what Gracie said were true, and then of guilt for her own so frequent absences.

“I could beat you myself for taking such a risk,” she said furiously, swallowing hard. “And I will do, I swear, if you ever do anything like it again! And how on earth am I going to tell the master what you know without telling him how you found out? Can you answer me that?”

Gracie shook her head.

“I shall have to think of something very clever indeed.” Gracie nodded.

“Don’t just stand there waggling your head. You’d better try to think as well. And get those grease stains out of his sleeve while you’re doing it. We’d better at least have his clothes clean for him.”

“Yes ma’am!” Gracie lifted her head and gave her a tiny smile.

Charlotte smiled back. She intended it to be tiny also, but it ended up being a wide, conspiratorial grin.

Charlotte spent the afternoon in the new house. Every day it seemed to be some new disaster had been discovered or some major decision must be made. The builder wore a permanent expression of anxiety and shook his head in doubt, biting his lip, before she had even finished framing her questions to him.

However, with the purchase of an excellent catalog from Young & Marten, Builders Merchants and Suppliers, she was able to counter most of his arguments quite specifically, and very slowly was earning his exceedingly grudging respect.

The principal problem was that she was racing against time. The Bloomsbury house was sold, and they must leave it within four weeks, and the new house was very far from ready to move into. Most of the major work was accomplished. Aunt Vespasia’s instructions had been followed to the letter, and
there was now an immaculate plaster cornice where the old one had been. There was even a flawless new ceiling rose as well. But it was all innocent of paint or paper, and the whole question of carpets was not even touched upon. Decisions crowded in from every quarter.

When talking to Emily about it she had thought she knew precisely what color she wished for each room, but when it came to the details of purchasing paper and paint, she was not at all certain. And if she were honest, her attention was not totally upon the matter. She could not help but be aware of the newspaper headlines and the tone of the articles beneath them criticizing the police in general—and the man in charge of the Hyde Park case in particular. It was grossly unfair. Pitt was reaping the whirlwind sown by the Whitechapel murders and the Fenian outrages and a dozen other things. There was also the general unrest in terms of political change, teeming poverty, ideas of anarchy come over from Europe as well as native-bred dissension, the instability of the throne with an old, sour queen shut away in perpetual mourning, and an heir who squandered his time and money on cards, racehorses and women. Headless corpses in Hyde Park were simply the focus for the anger and the fear.

It ought to be some ease of conscience to know that, but it was no use whatsoever as a defense. Thomas was so new in his promotion. Micah Drummond would have understood it; he was a gentleman, a member of the Inner Circle, until he broke from them with all the risk that that entailed, and a personal friend of many of his equals and superiors. Thomas was none of these things, and would never be. He would have to earn every step of his way—and prove himself again and again.

She stared around the room, her mind refusing to concentrate. Would it really be a good idea to have it green? Or would it be too cold after all? Whose opinion could she ask? Caroline was busy with Joshua, and anyway Charlotte did not want to see her and be reminded of that particular problem.

Emily was busy with Jack and the political battle that was now so close.

Pitt was working so hard she hardly ever saw him for more than a few moments when he came home at night, hungry and exhausted. Although tonight she would have to make an exception, no matter what the circumstances, to pass on Gracie’s news, when she had decided how to. But he certainly did not need to be troubled with domestic decisions—even if he had
had the faintest idea what color a room was. So far in their married life he had either liked a room or disliked it, beyond that he had never expressed any observation at all.

Then a snatch of conversation came back to her from the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. She had discussed interiors with the widow, Mina. She had not really intended to, but it had seemed something in which she took pleasure and, to judge from her remarks, had some talent. She would ask Mina’s opinion. It would serve two purposes, the relatively insignificant one of deciding whether to paper the room green or not, and the far larger, and more urgent, one of perhaps helping Thomas. With Gracie’s discovery it had become ever more pressing that they learn a little more about the captain, and if possible his habits.

There was no need to consider the decision. It was made. She was hardly dressed for calling, but it would be a waste of time to go back to Bloomsbury and change, and then have to take the omnibus back to Curzon Street. It would be extravagant to call a hansom. She did at least wash her face and make some rapid repairs to her hair before going outside into the sun and walking briskly to the nearest omnibus stop.

She did not seriously consider the impertinence of what she was doing until she stood on the doorstop of the late Captain Winthrop’s house, saw the drawn blinds and the dark wreath on the door, and wondered what on earth she would say.

“Yes ma’am?” the maid said in little more than a whisper.

“Good afternoon,” Charlotte replied, aware that her face was suddenly very pink. “Mrs. Winthrop was kind enough to give me some most excellent advice a few days ago. I am now sorely in need of some more, and I wondered if she would spare me a few moments of her time. I shall surely understand if it is not convenient. I am abashed at having called without informing her first. Her kindness quite made me forget my manners.”

“I’ll ask ’er, ma’am,” the maid said doubtfully. “But I’m sure as I can’t say if she will, the Ouse bein’ in mournin’ like.”

“Of course,” Charlotte agreed.

“ ’O? shall I say ’as called, ma’am?”

“Oh—Mrs. Pitt. We met at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service. I was with Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll ask, if you’ll be good enough to wait ’ere.”
And she left Charlotte standing in the hall while she scurried away.

It was not the maid who returned, but Mina herself, still dressed in what appeared to be the same black gown with its very high neck and lace-pointed cuffs. She was as tall as Charlotte but much slenderer, almost waiflike with her fair skin and impossibly fragile neck. She looked tired, bruised around the eyes, as if in the privacy of her own room she had wept herself to exhaustion, but her face was full of pleasure at the sight of Charlotte.

“How nice of you to call,” she said immediately. “You have no idea how lonely it is sitting here day after day, no one coming except to pay respects, and it isn’t seemly for me to go out anywhere.” She smiled briefly, half embarrassment, half shame, seeking Charlotte’s understanding. “Perhaps I shouldn’t even think like that, let alone say it, but grief is not helped by being by oneself in a darkened house.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Charlotte agreed with a wave of both sympathy and relief. “I wish society would allow people to cope with loss in whatever way is easiest for them, but I doubt it ever will.”

“Oh that would be a miracle,” Mina said hastily. “I wouldn’t look for anything so—so incredibly unlikely. But I’m delighted you have called. Please come into the withdrawing room.” She half turned, ready to lead the way. “The sun shines in there, and I refuse to lower the blinds—unless my mother-in-law should call. But that is not probable.”

“I should be happy to. It sounds a delightful room,” Charlotte accepted, following her across the hall and down a passageway. She noticed Mina walked very uprightly, almost as if she were too stiff to bend. “It is about just such a matter that I would appreciate your advice.”

“Indeed?” Mina indicated a chair as soon as they were in the room, which was indeed most attractive, and at the moment filled with afternoon sunlight. “Please tell me how I am to be of service to you. Would you care for tea while we are talking?”

“Oh that would be most welcome,” Charlotte agreed, both because she would very much like a drink after the omnibus ride and because it insured that she stay longer without having to seek an excuse.

Mina rang the bell with enthusiasm and ordered tea, sandwiches, pastries and cakes, then when the maid was gone, settled
herself to give Charlotte her entire attention. She sat on the forward edge of the chair, hands folded in her lap, half concealed by the lace, but her face was full of interest.

Charlotte was acutely aware of the underlying tragedy in the house, the unnatural silence, the strain in Mina so close under the surface of her composure. However, she explained that she was moving house, and all the things that had yet to be done before that could be accomplished satisfactorily. “I simply cannot decide whether the room would be too cold if I had it papered in green,” she finished.

“What does your husband say?” Mina inquired.

“Oh nothing. I have not asked him,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t think he will have an opinion before it is done, only afterwards if it is not agreeable. Although I daresay he will not even know why he does not like it.”

Mina shrugged very slightly. “My husband had most definite opinions. I had to be careful if I chose to change anything.” A look of guilt filled her face, sudden and startlingly painful. “I am afraid my taste was sometimes vulgar.”

“Oh surely not?” Charlotte said quickly. “Perhaps he merely meant that his own taste was exceedingly traditional. Some men hate any change, no matter how much it is actually an improvement.”

“You are very kind, but I am sure I must have been in the wrong. I had the breakfast room repapered while he was at sea. I should not have done it without asking him. He was most vexed when he came home and saw it.”