The Hyde Park Headsman (26 page)

“You are a woman of remarkable self-will—and perhaps of courage.”

She rose to her feet, forming a smile.

“Qualities of very dubious attraction,” she said lightly. “But you have been most charming, Mr. Mitchell, and generous with your hospitality, especially in such trying circumstances. Thank you.”

He stood up in a single movement and bowed very slightly.

“Thank you for your friendship to my sister—as thoughtful and considerate as it is at this particular time.”

“I look forward to it,” she replied noncommittedly, and inclined her head in acknowledgment. He saw her to the door, which the maid opened, handing her her cape, and she walked swiftly along Curzon Street towards the omnibus stop, her mind teeming with questions.

Pitt was late home, and Charlotte found it difficult waiting for him. Gracie had gone to bed and Daniel and Jemima were long asleep. Impatience consumed her so she could not sit down and do anything useful. There was mending waiting her attention, and it lay in her sewing box untouched. There were certainly letters to write.

Instead she pottered around the kitchen, picking up this, and poking at that, half cleaning the stove, emptying things from one jar into another, dropping the tea caddy and spilling its contents all over the floor. No one was there to see her sweep it up hastily and replace it all. The floor was perfectly clean, and it would be scalded with water anyway.

When at last she did hear his key in the door she straightened her skirts for the tenth time, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ran down the hall to meet him.

His first reaction was alarm, in case there were something
wrong, then
when he saw her face he was delighted and held her tightly until after a few moments she pushed him away.

“Thomas, I have discovered something really important today.”

“About the house?” He tried to sound interested, but she heard the weariness in his voice.

“No—that is not the same sort of important,” she dismissed it totally. “I went to see Mina Winthrop—actually about papering the dining room.”

“What?” He was incredulous. “What on earth do you mean? That’s nonsense!”

“About what color to choose,” she said impatiently, leading him back to the kitchen. “Not about doing it.”

He was totally confused. “How would she know what color you should use?”

“She is very gifted at that sort of thing.”

“How do you know?” He sat down at the kitchen table. “There are tea leaves on the floor here.”

“I must have spilled a little,” she said airily. “I discussed it with her at the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. I went to see her today—Will you please listen, Thomas. This is important.”

“I am listening. Can you put the kettle on at the same time? It’s hours since I had a cup of tea.”

“It is on. I’m about to make tea. Are you hungry too?”

“No, I think I’m too tired to eat.”

She ran a bowl of water, putting something into it he did not see, and put it down on the floor in front of him. “Feet,” she said absently.

“I’m not walking a beat,” he answered with a smile. “Have you forgotten, I’m a superintendent now?” He bent forward and unlaced his boots, slipping his feet out with intense pleasure.

“Don’t superintendents’ feet get hot in boots?”

He smiled and put his feet gingerly into the cold water. “What’s in it?”

“Epsom salts, same as always. Mrs. Winthrop has been beaten. And Oakley Winthrop may have been a sadist who liked to beat women anyway. I mean prostitutes—that sort of thing.”

“What?” He looked up at her sharply. “How do you know? Did she tell you that?”

“No, of course not. She spilled hot water on her wrist, and I undid her cuffs to see it. She is purple and green with bruises.”

“An accident …”

“No it wasn’t. There were finger marks. And I’m almost sure her neck was bruised as well, and who knows what else on the rest of her body. That’s why she wears long cuffs and high necks: to hide the bruises.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do! And what is more, I am almost sure Bart Mitchell knows it too.”

“How?”

“Because I spoke to her, and I watched her. She was bitterly ashamed, and embarrassed, and she didn’t tell me how it happened.
She would have, if it had been all right. Her husband did it, Thomas. The good Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop beat his wife.”

“What makes you so sure Mitchell knows about it?”

“Because he saw the bruises as well, and said nothing, of course. If he’d not known he’d have been horrified and asked her what had happened!”

“Maybe he beat her?”

“Why would he? And anyway, she’s afraid for him, Thomas, I’m sure of that. She is terrified he was the one who killed Winthrop.”

“You mean you are not sure of it,” he corrected. “People always say they are sure when what they mean is they think so, but they are not sure. Your kettle is boiling.”

“It won’t come to any harm.” She waved a hand at it. “Thomas, Mina is afraid Bart killed Oakley Winthrop because of the way he treated her.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And how did you come upon the information about the man who beats prostitutes in the park? Mina Winthrop didn’t tell you that, did she?”

“No of course not.”

“I am waiting.”

She took a deep breath. “Thomas, please don’t be angry—she did it because she is afraid for you. If you don’t forgive her, and say nothing whatever, I shall not forgive you.”

“Forgive me for what?” His eyebrows rose.

“For not forgiving her, of course!”

“Who? Is it Emily?”

“Perhaps I had better not say.” She had not even thought of blaming Emily, but it was an excellent idea. Emily was not Thomas’s responsibility.

“However, she knew about it?” he said very carefully. “At least give me the truth of that.”

“She went into the park at night, and one of the prostitutes told her. I mean, she got into a conversation—naturally …”

“Naturally,” he agreed dryly. “Does Jack know about this? I doubt it will improve his parliamentary chances.”

“Oh no. And you mustn’t tell him!”

“I would not think of it.”

“You promise?”

“I do.” He smiled, although the amusement was very double edged.

“Thank you.” She turned around and made the tea, giving it
a moment to brew, then poured him a steaming mugful and brought it back to him. She watched him carefully as he took his feet out of the water and she gave him the warm towel.

“Thank you,” he said after several moments.

“For the tea,” she said gravely, “or the towel?”

“For the information. Poor Mina.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have my tea and go to bed. I can’t think any more tonight.”

“I’m sorry. I should have waited.”

He reached up and kissed her, and for some time Mina Winthrop and her troubles were forgotten.

At dawn the following morning, Billy Sowerbutts was driving his cart slowly along Knightsbridge towards Hyde Park Corner when he was forced to come to a stop because the traffic ahead of him was packed solid. He was put out; in fact come to think of it, he was definitely angry. What was the point in getting up early, when you ached to stay in bed and sink back into sleep, if you were going to spend half the bleeding morning sitting as still as Nelson’s monument because some idiot ahead has stopped and is holding everything up?

For a hundred yards people were beginning to shout and curse. Someone’s horse shied and backed, and two carts collided, locking wheels.

That was really the last straw. Billy Sowerbutts tied the reins of his animal to the rail and jumped down. He strode past everyone else right up to the offending vehicle, a gig, which extraordinarily had no animal between the shafts, as if someone had pushed it there by hand and then abandoned it, leaving it lying askew, its rear end sufficiently far into the line of traffic to have blocked the way.

“Idjut!” he said harshly. “What kind of a fool leaves a gig in a place like this. ’ere! What the ’ell’s the matter wif yer? This in’t no place ter take a kip!” He strode around to the recumbent figure lolling in the back amid piles of old clothes. “Wake up, yer bleedin’ idjut! Get out of ’ere! Yer ’oldin up the ’ole street!” He leaned forward and shook the man’s shoulder, and felt his hand wet. He pulled it back, and in the broadening light saw his fingers dark with something. Then he leaned forward again and peered more closely at the man. He had no head.

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” he said, and fell over the shaft.

6

P
ITT SAT
at his desk staring at Tellman. He felt numb, as if he had been struck a physical blow and the flesh were still too newly bruised to hurt.

“Knightsbridge, just outside the park,” Tellman repeated. “Headless, of course.” His long face showed no inner triumph or superiority this morning. “He’s still out there, Mr. Pitt; and we aren’t any closer to the swine than we were in the beginning.”

“Who was he?” Pitt asked slowly. “Anything else we know?”

“That’s just it.” Tellman screwed up his face. “He was a bus conductor.”

Pitt was startled. “A bus conductor! Not a gentleman?”

“Definitely not. Just a very ordinary, very respectable little bus
conductor,”
Tellman repeated. “On his way home from his last run—at least, not on his way home: that’s the odd thing.” He stared at Pitt. “He lives near the end of the line, which is out Shepherd’s Bush way. That’s what the omnibus company said.”

“So what was he doing in Knightsbridge near the park?” Pitt asked the obvious question. “Is that where he was killed?”

Memory of past conversations flashed across Tellman’s face, of Pitt’s insistence, and then his own failure to find where Arledge had been killed.

“No—at least it doesn’t look like it,” he replied. “There’s no way you can chop a man’s head off without leaving rivers of blood around, and there’s very little in the gig he was in.”

“Gig? What gig?” Pitt demanded.

“Ordinary sort of gig, except no horse,” Tellman replied.

“What do you mean a gig with no horse?” Pitt’s voice was rising in spite of himself. “Either it’s a vehicle to ride in or it’s a cart to push!”

“I mean the horse wasn’t there,” Tellman said irritably. “Nobody’s found it yet.”

“The Headsman let it loose?”

“Apparently.”

“What else?” Pitt leaned back, although no position was going to be comfortable today. “You have the head, I presume, since you know who he was and where he lived. Was he struck first? I don’t suppose he had anything worth robbing him of?”

“Yes, he was hit first, pretty hard, then his head taken off cleanly. Much better job than Arledge, poor devil. He was coming home from work, still had his uniform on, and he had three and sixpence in his pockets, which was about right, and a watch worth about five pounds. But why would anyone pick a bus conductor to rob?”

“Nobody would,” Pitt agreed unhappily. “Have you been to the family yet?”

Tellman’s narrow mouth tightened. “It’s still only half past eight.” He omitted the “Sir.” “Le Grange is on his way, just to inform her, like. Can’t see as she’ll be any help.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the desk, staring down at Pitt. “We’ve got another lunatic. Seems he attacks anyone, as the fit takes him. No sense to it at all. I’m going to try Bedlam again. Maybe they refused someone, or let a maniac go a while back …” But his dark flat eyes registered no hope that it would produce anything. Then suddenly the emotion was there, raw and violent. “Someone’s got to know him!” he said passionately. “All London’s snapping at itself with suspicion, people are jumping at shadows, no one trusts anybody anymore—but someone knows him. Someone’s seen his face afterwards, and known he wasn’t right. Someone’s seen a weapon, or knows about it—they’ve got to!”

Pitt frowned, ignoring the outburst. He knew it was true, he’d seen the fear in the eyes, heard the sharp edge to voices, the distrust, the defensiveness and the blame. “This gig, where did it come from? Whose is it?” He sat down.

Tellman looked slightly taken aback, but he hid it immediately.