The Hyde Park Headsman (50 page)

“The Headsman wanted him there so he could kill him over the side,” she answered.

“But how would he get him there? How would you persuade someone to get into a boat in the middle of the night?”

She drew in her breath. “Ah—I should—I should say I had dropped something in the water, off a bridge or something, and if I did not retrieve it, it would be lost,” she said with satisfaction. “I should first have dropped in my hat, or whatever came to mind.”

“Hat!” He sat upright, unintentionally knocking her sideways.

“What?” She scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Thomas?”

“Hat,” he repeated. “There was a hat found when we dragged it! It wasn’t Winthrop’s. We didn’t connect it, but that’s what it could have been. Put there as a reason to lure him into the boat. You are brilliant! It’s so simple, and so effective.” He kissed her with enthusiasm, and then stood up and began to pace the floor. “It begins to make sense,” he went on, his voice rising with excitement. “Winthrop was a naval man. It might be quite natural to appeal to him to assist in getting to the hat before it sank. The Headsman could quite easily affect to be useless with the oars. Many people are.”

He waved his arms eloquently. “He would request Winthrop’s assistance. Winthrop would naturally give it. They would both get into the boat—and the next thing the Headsman points to something in the water, Winthrop leans over the
side—and …” He brought down his arms with his hand stiff like a blade. “Winthrop is beheaded.”

“What about the others?” she asked. “What about Arledge?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know where Arledge was killed.”

“But Scarborough? And the omnibus conductor?” she persisted.

“Scarborough was killed on Rotten Row, right where he was found. The horse trough was full of blood.”

“And Yeats?”

“Near Shepherd’s Bush terminal. Then taken in a gig to Hyde Park.”

She thought for a moment. “Makes it look as if Arledge was the one that was most important, doesn’t it,” she said at last. “Except that he wasn’t first. Every time I think it makes sense”—she shrugged, sitting back again—“then it doesn’t.”

“I know.” He stopped and held out his hand. “Enough for now. I’ll start again tomorrow. Come to bed.”

She took his hand and stood up slowly, but her face was still tight in concentration. Even when walking up the stairs her mind was working, turning over ideas, beginning plans. Only when she was in her nightgown and pulling the sheets up around her neck and snuggling closer to Pitt did she finally forget it and think of other things.

In the morning Pitt did not go to Bow Street; there was no point. His mind was whirling with ideas, uncertain, many of them half formed and depending upon facts and impressions he had yet to confirm. He could not serve his purpose by starting until the evening. He spent the day in trivial duties, checking and rechecking of details. Then at a quarter to eight he began. He wanted to see Victor Garrick, but did not have his address. He knew Mina Winthrop would know it, accordingly he took the omnibus to Curzon Street and alighted on the pavement in the clear spring dusk.

“Yes sir?” the parlormaid said inquiringly.

“May I please speak with Mrs. Winthrop?” he asked courteously.

“Yes sir. If you care to come this way, I shall see if she is at home.”

It was the usual polite fiction, and he followed her in and waited obediently. Mina came after less than five minutes, looking charming in
pale lavender muslin. As soon as she saw his surprise she blinked.

“Good evening, Superintendent. I am afraid you have caught me unexpectedly. I am not suitably dressed.” It was an understatement. She looked years younger than when he had seen her immediately after her husband’s death, dressed entirely in black and looking frightened and bewildered. Now her cheeks had color, her long, slender neck was bare but for a heavy bead necklace, and only because he knew it was there could he see the faintest purpling of bruises. To anyone else they would merely have seemed shadows. There was a spontaneity in her movement, as if she were full of purpose.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you at all, Mrs. Winthrop,” he apologized in turn. “I came because I wished to call upon Victor Garrick and I do not know his address, except that it is close by here.”

“Oh! Well it is fortunate you have come,” she said quickly. “They are two doors away, but you would have had a wasted journey anyway. He is presently with us.”

“Indeed. Would it be too much of an intrusion for me to speak with him? I will not detain him long.”

“Of course not. I am sure if there is anything he can do to help he would be happy to.” She frowned. “Although I understand from my brother that you have caught the man. What more can there be?”

“Some details to learn, so we are not taken unaware by a clever lawyer,” he replied untruthfully.

“Then please come through to the garden room, Superintendent. Victor has been playing for us, and it will be a most pleasant place to sit.”

He thanked her and accepted willingly, following her as she turned and led the way along the passage and into one of the most charming rooms he had ever seen. French windows opened straight into a small walled garden filled with plants with every shape of leaf. All the flowers were white: white roses, plantain lilies, carnations and pinks, alyssum, Solomon’s seal, and many others of which he did not know the names.

Inside, the walls and curtains were green with a delicate white floral print, and a large bowl was filled with further white flowers. The last of the gentle evening light shone in, making the room warm and still giving the illusion of the freshness of a garden.

In the corner Victor Garrick sat with his cello. Bart Mitchell stood by the mantelpiece. There was no one else present.

“Victor, I am so sorry to interrupt,” Mina began. “But Superintendent Pitt has actually come to see you. It seems there are some further details yet to clear up in this wretched business, and he thinks you may be able to help.”

“Perhaps we should excuse ourselves.” Bart moved as if to leave.

“Oh no,” Pitt said hastily. “Please, Mr. Mitchell, I should be glad if you would both remain. It would save me having to ask you all separately.” An idea was beginning to form in his mind, although still hazy and lacking many essential elements. “I am sorry to disturb your music on such a distressing matter, but I think we are really close to the end at last.”

Bart moved back to the mantel shelf and resumed his position leaning against it, his expression cold. “If you wish, Superintendent, but I don’t think any of us knows anything we have not already told you.”

“It is a matter of what you may have seen.” Pitt turned to Victor, who was watching him with his clear, very blue eyes wide and apparently more polite than interested.

“Yes?” he said, since the silence seemed to call for some remark.

“At the reception after the Requiem service for Aidan Arledge,” Pitt began, “I believe you were sitting in the corner alcove near the doorway to the hall?”

“Yes. I didn’t especially wish to wander around talking to people,” Victor agreed. “And anyway, it is far more important to stay with my cello. Someone might accidentally bump it, or even knock it over.” Unconsciously his arms tightened around the precious instrument, caressing its exquisite wood, which was smooth as satin and as bright. Pitt noticed the bruise and felt a stab of fury at the vandalism.

“Is that how that happened?” he asked.

Victor’s face tightened and his skin went suddenly white. His eyes were hard and very bright, staring fixedly at some spot in the far distance, or perhaps within his own memory.

“No,” he said between his teeth.

“What was it?” Pitt pressed, and found himself holding his own breath. He did not realize that the pain in the palms of his hands was his nails digging into the flesh.

“Some vile creature pushed me, and it knocked against the
handrail,” Victor answered in a soft voice, his gaze still far away.

“The handrail?” Pitt questioned.

“Yes.”

Bart Mitchell shifted his position away from the mantel and opened his mouth to interrupt, then changed his mind.

“Of an omnibus?” Pitt said, almost in a whisper.

“What?” Victor looked around at him. “Oh—yes. People like that have … nothing inside them—no feeling—no souls!”

“It’s a senseless piece of vandalism,” Pitt agreed, swallowing hard and stepping back a little. “What I wanted to ask you, Mr. Garrick, was if you saw the butler, Scarborough, when he was directing the other servants that afternoon?”

“Who?”

“The butler, Scarborough.”

Victor still looked blank.

“A big man with a haughty face and arrogant manner.”

Victor’s eyes filled with comprehension and memory. “Oh yes. He was a bully, a contemptible man.” He winced at Pitt as he said it. “It is beyond forgiveness to use one’s power to abuse those who are in no position to defend themselves. I abhor it, and the people who do such things are …” He sighed. “I have no words for it. I search my mind and nothing comes which carries the weight of the anger I feel.”

“Did he actually dismiss the girl for singing?” Pitt asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Victor raised his eyes and stared at him.

Pitt waited.

“Yes,” Victor said at length. “She was singing a little love song, quite softly, just a sad little thing about losing someone. He dismissed her without even listening to her explanation or apology.” His face was even whiter as he spoke and his lips were bloodless. “She cannot have been more than sixteen.” His whole body was tight, and he sat hunched, only his hands still gentle on the cello.

“Mrs. Radley heard it too,” Pitt said, not as any part of his plan, but spontaneously, from pity. “She offered the girl a position. She won’t be out on the street.”

Slowly Victor turned to gaze at him, his eyes softened, very bright blue, and the anger drained out of him.

“Did she?”

“Yes. She is my sister-in-law, and I know it is true.”

“And the man is dead,” Victor added. “So that’s all right.”

“Was that all you wanted to ask?” Bart said, stepping forward. “I saw nothing, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did my sister.”

“Oh, almost,” Pitt replied, looking not at him but at Mina. “The other matter was concerning Mr. Arledge.” He altered the tone of his voice to be deliberately harsher. “You told me before, Mrs. Winthrop, that your acquaintance with him was very slight, only a matter of a single kindness on one occasion when you were distressed over the death of a pet.”

She swallowed and hesitated. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I do not believe you.”

“We have told you what happened, Superintendent,” Bart said grimly. “Whether you accept it or not, I am afraid that is all there is. You have the Headsman. There is no purpose whatever in your persisting in a matter which is peripheral at best.”

Pitt ignored him.

“I think you knew him considerably better than that,” he said to Mina. “And I do not believe the matter that distressed you was the death of a pet.”

She looked pale, and distinctly uncomfortable.

“My brother has already told you what happened, Superintendent. I have nothing to add to that.”

“I know Mr. Mitchell told me, ma’am. What I wonder is why you did not tell me yourself! Is it that you are not quite so quick with a lie? Or perhaps you did not think of one in time?”

“Sir, you are being gratuitously offensive.” Bart moved closer to Pitt, as if he would offer him physical violence. His voice was low and dangerous. “I must ask you to leave this house. You are no longer welcome here.”

“Whether I am welcome or not is a matter of complete indifference,” Pitt answered, still facing, not Bart, but Mina. “Mrs. Winthrop, if I were to ask your servants, would they bear out your story of a domestic pet’s death?”

Mina looked very white and her hands were shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her lips were dry.

“Mrs. Winthrop,” he said grimly, hating the necessity for this. “We know that your husband beat you—”

Her head jerked up, her face white with horror. “Oh no, no!” she said involuntarily. “It was … accidental … he … it
was my own fault. If I were less clumsy, less stupid … I provoked him by …” She trailed off, staring at Bart.

Victor looked at Mina, his eyes wide and hard, waiting.

“It is not your fault!” Bart said between his teeth. “I don’t care a damn how stupid or persistent or argumentative you were! Nothing justifies—”

“Bart!” Her voice rose close to a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! It was nothing! He never intended to hurt me! You misunderstand all of it. Oakley wasn’t … cruel. It was the whiskey. He just …”

Victor looked at Mina’s terror, and at Bart, white-faced and torn with indecision.

“Didn’t it hurt?” he asked very gently.

“No, no Victor dear, it was all over very quickly,” she assured him. “Bart is just a little”—she hesitated—“protective of me.”

“That’s not true!” Victor’s voice was thick, almost choking. “It hurts—it frightens! It’s in your face! You were terrified of him. And he made you feel ashamed all the time, and worthless …”

“No! No, that’s not true. He didn’t mean it. And I am all right, I promise you!”

“Because the swine is dead!” Bart spat. He was about to add something more, but he got no further. Mina burst into tears, her shoulders hunched over as dry sobs racked her and she sank onto the sofa. Bart strode forward, almost knocking Victor out of the way, and took Pitt roughly by the arm, propelling him towards the door. Victor remained immobile.

In the hallway Pitt made no protest, and a few moments later, feeling the bruises of Bait’s fingers on his arm a trifle tenderly, he walked along the footpath towards the main thoroughfare. It was a clear evening, and still just light. He was not expecting anything to happen for some time.

He spent a tense fifteen minutes taking a glass of cider in a public house, then continued his way as the cloud cover grew heavier and the daylight dimmed. It was some time before he was sure he was being followed. At first it was only a sensation, a consciousness of a sound which echoed his footsteps, stopping when he did, resuming when he did.