The Hyde Park Headsman (28 page)

“No ma’am,” he agreed, and yet he saw in her eyes the same thought that occurred to him. They looked like another set of house keys.

She passed them back to him. “I’m sorry. I’m not being of any assistance.”

“Of course you are,” Pitt assured her quickly. “Your candor is invaluable. Few people would have the courage that you have in such fearful circumstances, let alone the clarity of mind to be of practical help. It distresses me to have to put it to you at all.” He meant it profoundly.

She smiled at him, warmth filling her face.

“You are very generous, Superintendent. Although with someone as sympathetic as you have been, talking of Aidan, and the whole tragedy, is not as difficult as you may imagine. It is never far from my mind anyway, and to be able to be frank is something of a relief.” She made a little gesture of rueful impatience. “People mean to be kind, but they will speak of anything else, skirting around the subject all the time,
when we all know we are thinking of little else, whatever we may say.”

He knew precisely what she meant, he had seen it countless times before, the embarrassment, the averted eyes, the hesitation, then the rush into meaningless, irrelevant speech.

“Please ask me whatever you wish,” she invited.

“Thank you. On the possibility that Mr. Arledge actually met whoever killed him, or had some connection, however accidental or tenuous, I would like to follow his actions in the last week of his life.”

“What a good idea,” she agreed immediately. “I am sure I can help with that. I can bring you his diary of professional appointments. I kept it because I was looking ahead to see what he was doing, and of course I have since had to write a great many letters.” She shrugged delicately and pulled a little face of distaste. “I expect everyone read about it in the newspapers, or heard, but that is not the same.”

“I would appreciate it.” He had not asked before because Arledge’s professional engagements seemed so far removed from a violent murder by a madman.

“Of course.” She rose to her feet and he stood also, without even thinking, and it seemed a natural gesture of courtesy toward her.

She went to a small, inlaid walnut escritoire and opened it, putting her hand to a dark green leather-bound book and bringing it out. She offered it to him.

He took it and opened it where it fell naturally and saw the entry for the day of Arledge’s death. There was a notation of a rehearsal in the afternoon and nothing else. He looked up and met Dulcie’s eyes.

“He had only the one appointment that day?” he asked.

“I am afraid I don’t know,” she answered. “There is only one written there, but he did sometimes, in fact really quite often, go out on the spur of the moment. That diary was largely for professional engagements.”

“I see.” He turned the pages back for a week, then started reading forwards. Rehearsals, performances and luncheon and dinner engagements for meeting with various people connected with future projects were all written in a neat, strong hand with bold capitals and clearly legible cursive script. It was an elegant hand, yet not florid. “If I may take this, I shall see what I can learn.”

“Of course you may,” she said eagerly. “I can give you the
names of certain people he worked with regularly. Sir James Lismore, for one; and Roderick Alberd. They would know many others, I am sure.” She stood up again and turned back to the desk. “I have their addresses in here somewhere. Lady Lismore is a friend of long standing. I am sure she would give you every assistance.”

“Thank you,” he accepted, unsure if it would prove of any value at all, and torn between the desire to know Aidan Arledge better and the dislike of finding that he kept a mistress. It would be an appalling burden for this woman to bear, on top of bereavement. He decided at that moment that if it were not relevant to the case he would keep silent, forget it as if it had never happened. He would be quite prepared to return the keys to her and lie about it, say he had failed to find the doors they opened.

He thanked her again, stood facing her in the quiet room trying to think of something further to say, to offer comfort or hope, and nothing came to him. She smiled and bade him good-bye.

“You will tell me—what you find, won’t you, Superintendent?” she said as he was almost at the door.

“If I find anything that leads to unraveling the mystery, I shall certainly tell you,” he promised, and before she could decide whether that was the answer she sought, he allowed the maid to show him out.

He began with the names she had given him. Roderick Alberd proved to be an eccentric with flying hair and whiskers in the manner of the late Franz Liszt, and his study in which he received Pitt was dominated by a grand piano. Alberd wore a wine velvet jacket and a large, very floppy cravat. His voice when he spoke was rasping and unexpectedly high.

“Oh, grieved, Superintendent,” he said with an expansive gesture. “In fact desolated. What a perfectly senseless way to die.” He swiveled around to stare at Pitt with surprisingly intelligent blue eyes. “That is the sort of thing that should happen to rakes and bullies, unsophisticated men of violence without taste or culture, not to a man like Aidan Arledge. There was nothing uncouth or predatory in his nature. It is an affront to civilization itself. What have you done about it?” His look narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“I am trying to learn where he went and whom he saw in the last few days—” Pitt began, but was interrupted.

Alberd threw up his hands. “Good heavens, what for? Do you suppose this madman knew him personally?”

“I think their paths may have crossed,” Pitt acceded. “I do not think he was chosen entirely at random. Can you help me? Your name was given me by his widow.”

“Ah yes, poor soul. Well—” Alberd sat down on the piano stool and flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles. His hands were extraordinarily wide with long, spatulate fingers. Pitt found himself fascinated watching them. Had anyone been strangled, those hands with their power would have haunted his dreams.

Pitt waited.

“He was killed on a Tuesday, as I recall. Found Wednesday morning, yes?” Alberd began, then apparently not requiring an answer, he continued. “Well on the Monday I saw him. Middle of the afternoon. We discussed a recital next month. I shall have to find someone else to conduct now. I confess, I had not even thought of that.” He cracked his knuckles again. “When he left me he said he was going to visit a friend, I forget whom. It was of no concern to me, not anyone I knew—not a musical person, I believe.”

“If you could remember …”

“Good heavens, Superintendent, surely you don’t imagine …? No, I assure you, it was a friend of long standing. I believe a close friend.” He looked at Pitt with amusement.

“What else can you tell me about his work, who else may know his movements that week, Mr. Alberd?”

“Oh, let me see …” He thought for several moments, staring at the floor, then finally gave Pitt a list of his own engagements for the time, and all those occasions in which his path had crossed that of Aidan Arledge, or in many instances, places or functions he knew Arledge would have attended. When he had finished it was a surprisingly complete picture.

“Thank you.” Pitt excused himself and took his leave with considerable hope.

He also visited Lady Lismore, and from her suggestion several others. Three days later he had learned where Aidan Arledge had been most of the last week of his life, and several places he visited regularly. Certain names occurred again and again. He determined to question them all.

In between he returned to Bow Street, often late in the evening, to learn what Tellman had found.

“Don’t know where Arledge was killed,” he admitted sourly, looking at Pitt with irritation. “I’ve had men searching the length and breadth of the park, and every man on the beat for a mile in every direction has been told to keep his eyes open. Nothing!”

“What about Yeats, the bus conductor?” Pitt looked up at him without expectation.

“Don’t know where he was killed either.” Tellman sat sideways in the chair. “But there are one or two likely places in Shepherd’s Bush. At least we know where the gig came from. A man called Arburthnot reported it stolen from outside his house in Silgrave Road.”

“I presume you looked in that immediate area for a murder site?” Pitt asked.

Tellman withered him with a glance. “Of course we did. One of the most likely was in the railway siding just off Silgrave Road. Ground is so soaked with oil and covered with cinders and the like, it’s hard to tell if there’s been blood there or not.”

“Anyone see Yeats after he left the bus?”

Tellman shook his head.

“No one that’ll say so. Driver saw him off, said good-night, and said Yeats started along Silgrave Road. He lives in Osman Gardens, about four or five streets away.”

“Did anyone else get off the bus at the same time?”

“Half a dozen people.” Tellman pulled a face. “Says he can’t remember any of them because he had his back to them throughout the journey, and at the end all he could think of was getting home and putting his feet in a bowl of Epsom salts.”

“What about regular passengers?” Pitt asked. “They will have noticed if there was anyone unusual. What do they say?”

“Could only find one regular,” Tellman said grimly. “It’s not the sort of time for anyone who works, or goes to any place of trade or entertainment. It’s later than the theaters. Anyway, who goes to the city theaters from Shepherd’s Bush on a bus?”

Pitt was losing patience. “What did your one regular say? Have you learned anything at all, man?”

“As far as he could remember, there were six or seven people on the bus by the time it got to Shepherd’s Bush. At least four of them were men, one young, three older, and as far as
he could tell, biggish. He couldn’t recall any of them. He was tired and had a toothache.” Tellman’s chin came up and his long face was tight. “And what have you learned … sir? Anything that would be of help to us?”

“I think Arledge kept a mistress, and I expect to find her within the next day or two,” Pitt replied, rather rashly.

“Ah …” It was hard to know from Tellman’s wince if he were interested or not. “Could explain Arledge’s death, if the lady was married, but why Winthrop? Or was he her lover as well?”

“I won’t know that until I have found her,” Pitt answered, standing up and walking over towards the window. “And before you ask, I don’t know what Yeats has to do with it either, unless in some way he knew something and was a blackmailer.” Below him in the street a hansom had stopped and a large man was alighting with difficulty. An urchin with a broom did not bother to hide his amusement.

Tellman raised his eyebrows. “The lady lived in Shepherd’s Bush?” he asked sarcastically.

“But a madman who kills without any pattern at all doesn’t make sense either,” Pitt replied.

“It has something to do with the park,” Tellman said decisively. “Or why bring Yeats all the way back in a gig? Much safer simply to leave him in Shepherd’s Bush. Why put him in the gig at all, for that matter?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want him left where he was,” Pitt suggested, leaving the window and sitting on the edge of the desk. “Maybe he brought him back to Hyde Park because that’s where our murderer lives.”

Tellman opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. “Maybe. Arledge’s mistress and her husband, I suppose? Perhaps she’s a very loose principled woman, and she was Winthrop’s mistress too? But surely not the fat little conductor’s?” His lantern face broke into a hard smile. “I’ll be entertained to meet this woman.”

Pitt stood up. “Then I had better get on and find her. You find out where Yeats and Arledge were killed.”

“Yes sir.” And still smiling to himself, Tellman stood up and went to the door.

But it was another two long days of painstaking work with petty details of discussions, meetings and partings, half-heard conversations and glimpses of people, before Pitt had traced a
dozen or so of Arledge’s acquaintances and begun to eliminate them from any suspicion. He was losing heart. They were all very properly accounted for, and their relationships were above reproach.

Tired, sore footed and discouraged, Pitt presented himself at the door of a much respected businessman who had contributed funds to the small orchestra which Aidan Arledge had frequently conducted. Perhaps Mr. Jerome Carvell had a beautiful wife?

The door was opened by a tall butler with a long, curved nose and a supercilious mouth.

“Good evening, sir.” He looked Pitt up and down questioningly. Apparently he was uncertain of what he saw. The weariness and confidence in Pitt’s expression belied the rather sloppy abandon of his clothes and the dust covering his boots.

“Good evening,” Pitt replied, fishing for his card and giving it to him. “I apologize for calling so late, and unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent. May I perhaps speak with Mr. or Mrs. Carvell?”

“I will ask Mr. Carvell if he will see you, sir,” the butler replied.

“I should like to speak to Mrs. Carvell also,” Pitt insisted.

“Impossible, sir.”

“It is important.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose higher. “There is no Mrs. Carvell, sir.”

“Oh.” Pitt felt unreasonably disappointed. Even if Mr. Carvell were as good a friend to Arledge as he had been led to suppose, and knew of his personal life, he would not now betray it to the police.

“Did you wish to see Mr. Carvell, sir?” The butler looked a trifle impatient.

“Yes please,” Pitt replied, more out of irritation than hope.

“Then if you will come this way, sir, I will inquire if that is possible.” Turning on his heel, the butler led the way to a small, very gracious study, wood paneled and lined with shelves of leather-bound books which looked unusually well read, arranged in order of subject, not of appearance.

Pitt was left for barely five minutes, during which time he looked at the titles and noted such areas of interest as exploration, classical drama, entomology, medieval architecture and the raising of roses. Then the door opened and he saw a man of perhaps forty-five. His fairish hair was beginning to turn
gray at the temples and his face was of marked individuality and extraordinary intelligence. No one would have called him handsome—his skin was marked by some past disease, perhaps smallpox, and his teeth were far from straight—and yet he had such humor and perception that Pitt found himself regarding him with immediate liking.