The Hyde Park Headsman (4 page)

He went out onto the pavement of Bow Street and started north towards Drury Lane and a hansom cab. But whatever he thought of Tellman, unless he proved himself incompetent at the task, he must not rob him of his stewardship. He lengthened his stride with a haste he could not explain.

In Drury Lane he hailed a cab and gave the driver the Winthrops’ address, then settled back for the ride. He was not sure what he could add to the information Tellman would already have gathered, except his own impressions. But sometimes personal judgment was the most valuable element, the one thing no one else could give you, the small voice in the back of the mind which warned to look beyond the obvious.

No one had reported back yet, which did not surprise him. Tellman would leave it till the last possible moment that bordered on insolence but avoided outright insubordination. And Pitt was obliged by honesty to admit he had reported to his own superiors only when he felt he could evade it no longer. He disliked being told how he should conduct his case by someone behind a desk, who had not seen the faces of the men and women involved and knew nothing of their emotions. Much as it annoyed him, he could not justly blame Tellman for doing the same.

So now he was going to do what Micah Drummond had never done; he was on his way to interview the widow on the first day of the case. But it was a sensitive matter. This was the very reason he had obtained preferment instead of Tellman or some other officer brought in from another station. He knew how to treat the gentry with courtesy, and yet still to read their emotions, detect their lies and persist until he found the truth hidden beneath the layers of politics, ritual, subterfuge and pride.

Not a little of his past success was due to Charlotte’s help, and he admitted it freely to himself, if not to the assistant commissioner.

The hansom drew up in Curzon Street, Pitt alighted and paid the driver, then taking off his hat in preparatory courtesy, he mounted the front door steps to number twenty-four and pulled the brass bell knob.

It was several moments before a white-faced butler answered and looked at Pitt almost expressionlessly.

“Good afternoon,” Pitt said very soberly. “Superintendent Thomas Pitt, from Bow Street. I should appreciate a short interview with Mrs. Winthrop.” He produced his card, now with his rank engraved on it as well as his name, and dropped it on the butler’s silver tray. “I understand this is a most distressing time, but she may be able to help find the man who has brought about this tragedy, and speed is of the essence.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler conceded reluctantly. He looked Pitt up and down from his untidy hair to his beautiful boots. At any other time, when not suffering from shock, he might have been harder to override, but today he was not himself. “If you will come to the library, sir, I shall see if it is possible. This way, sir, if you please.”

Pitt followed him across the gracious flagstoned hallway into a very fine library, paneled in oak on one side, with bookshelves
on two, and the remaining wall facing the garden, where deep windows were presently partly obscured by a tangle of coral-pink roses richly in bloom. Pitt thought only for the briefest moment of the new house Charlotte was so happy with, its broken plaster and peeling paper, and her profusion of dreams for it. Then he returned to the present, the somber shelves of unread books and the brilliantly patterned carpet, unmarked by the passage of feet. The desk in the corner was immaculate. No dust and no signs of use marred its virgin surface.

What manner of man had Captain Winthrop been? He gazed around the room seeking some clue as to character, some touch of individuality. He saw nothing. It was essentially a masculine place, dark greens and wines, leather upholstery, books, prints of ships on the wall, a heavy carved mantel with bronze statuary of lions at one end and two hunting dogs at the other. There was a heavy Waterford crystal whiskey decanter, a quarter full, on the side table. He had the powerful feeling of being in a room prepared for a man, rather than one a man had chosen for himself.

The door opened and the butler stood in the entrance.

“Mrs. Winthrop will see you, sir, if you care to come to the withdrawing room.”

Pitt left the library with a sense of incompleteness and followed the butler back across the hallway and towards the rear of the house, where the long withdrawing room stretched towards the open lawn and formal rose beds. He had time only to be aware of excellent architectural proportions, spoiled by curtains which were too ornate for the windows, and a heavy carved white-and-gray marble mantel. Wilhelmina Winthrop was dressed entirely in black, as was to be expected, but the totality of it startled him until he realized why. She was a very slender woman, in fact unkind judgment would have said thin. Her fairish hair was swept up in heavy coils, making her neck look even more fragile. Her black gown, swirling around the chair in which she sat, was adorned by a black lace fichu covering her throat up to her chin, and her long sleeves came down in lace points over the backs of her hands, almost to her knuckles. It was the most alarmingly somber garb he had ever seen, and it made her look vulnerable. He thought at first glance that she was much younger than he had supposed, perhaps in her twenties. Then as he approached her more closely
he saw the fine lines in her face and the skin around her eyes. He adjusted his judgment. She was nearer her mid-thirties.

Behind her stood a man of medium height, not heavy but of athletic build, thickly curling brown hair, and a subtly aquiline face, the skin of which had been burned to a warm, deep color as from a climate where summer followed summer unceasingly.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said gravely. “May I offer you my deepest sympathies upon your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” she answered; her voice was soft and her diction clear and most pleasing. Her smile was only the barest expression of good manners.

The man behind her frowned. “You must have some more profound purpose than expressing your condolences, Superintendent. I am sure you will understand if we ask that you make this as brief as possible. It is hardly a time when my sister wishes to receive people, however necessary or well-intentioned.”

“Please, Bart.” She put up a hand towards him. “Mr. Pitt, this is my brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. He has come to be with me at this most—most trying time. Please excuse his manner being a trifle abrupt, but he is solicitous for my welfare. He does not mean to be rude.”

“Certainly I shall not trespass on your time any longer than need be, ma’am,” Pitt agreed. There was no easy or pleasant way to do this, even if he came after Tellman and had no news, simply questions to ask. Still they were intrusive and painful when she would almost certainly rather be alone to allow her mind and her heart to absorb the shock and begin to realize her new situation, the reality of death, aloneness, the beginning of grief and the long road which from now on would be without companionship or support.

“Have you any further news for us?” Bart Mitchell asked, leaning forward over his sister’s chair.

“No—I am afraid not.” Pitt was still standing. “Inspector Tellman is busy asking people who were in the park and who might have seen something, and of course looking for material evidence.”

Mina Winthrop swallowed hard, as if she had some obstruction in her throat. “Evidence?” she said awkwardly. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t wish to hear, my dear,” Bart Mitchell said
quickly. “The less you have to know about the details the better.”

“I am not a child, Bart,” she protested, but before she could add anything further, he rested both his hands on her shoulders and leaned a little over her, looking at Pitt.

“Of course you are not, my dear, but you are a woman newly bereaved, and it is my privilege to protect you from any further unnecessary pain, not to mention my duty.” This last was to Pitt, and his clear, very blue eyes were level and held an air of challenge.

Mina straightened up a fraction, lifting her chin.

“In what way may we help, Mr. Pitt? If there is anything I can do to assist you to find out who did this to my husband, please be assured I shall do it to the utmost of my ability.”

“What could you possibly know?” Bart said with a shake of his head. “You have already told Inspector Tellman what time you last saw Oakley.” He looked at Pitt again. “Which was late yesterday evening after supper. He said he was going to take a short walk for the good of his health. He never returned.”

Pitt ignored Bart Mitchell. “When did you become concerned by his absence, Mrs. Winthrop?”

She blinked. “When I awoke this morning and came down to breakfast. Oakley normally rises early—earlier than I. I saw that his place was still set at the table and had not been used.” She ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips. “I asked Bunthorne if the master were not well, and Bunthorne said he had not seen him this morning. Naturally I sent him upstairs to check, and he returned saying that Captain Winthrop’s bed had not been slept in.” She stopped abruptly, her face suddenly very pale.

Bart’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

Pitt was going to ask the obvious question, about her and her husband having separate rooms, but it seemed unnecessary. He knew that many families, who could afford to, had separate bedrooms for husband and wife, with connecting doors. It had never appealed to him; he was used to the closeness of smaller spaces, the gentle intimacy, and found in it one of his greatest pleasures. But then few people were as fortunate in their marriages as he, and he knew it. To share even the privacy and vulnerability of sleep with someone one did not love must be a refinement of misery which would destroy the best in either person. And to one accustomed to the freedom to choose
whether to have the window open or closed, the curtains drawn or wide, the counterpane this way or that, consideration for another must be a strange and uncomfortable restriction.

“Had that ever happened before?” he asked.

“No—not that I recall. I mean …” She looked at him anxiously. “I mean not without his saying where he would be and when he would be back. He was always most particular about keeping people informed. He was very exact, you know. I expect it comes from his naval training.” She opened her eyes a little wider. “I daresay one cannot command a ship at sea if one allows mistakes, or people to wander off and come back as they please.”

“I imagine not, although it is outside my experience,” Pitt equivocated. “I take it, ma’am, that he was a very precise man, used to keeping an exact order in things?”

“Yes,” Bart said rather quickly, and then closed his mouth in a thin line. “Yes he was.”

“Please do not misunderstand us.” Mina looked at Pitt. She had very fine blue eyes with dark brown lashes. “He was not without humor. I would not like you to think he was a martinet.”

The idea had not occurred to Pitt, but the fact that she denied it raised the question in his mind.

“Did he have friends in the neighborhood upon whom he might have called?” He asked this not because he thought it helpful—Tellman would already have asked—but because he wanted some clue to Winthrop’s character. Was he sociable or reclusive? Whom did he consider his equals?

Mina glanced up at her brother, then back at Pitt.

“We are not aware of any,” Bart replied. “Oakley was a naval captain, Superintendent. He spent a great deal of his time aboard his ship. When he was ashore he preferred to be at home with his wife. Or so it seemed. If he had the sort of acquaintance upon whom he would call alone in the evening, then my sister was not aware of it.”

“He said he was going to take a walk for his health,” she repeated, looking anxiously at Pitt. “He had eaten rather well at dinner. I—I imagine he walked farther than he realized, and found himself in the park, and was set upon by …” She bit her lip. “I don’t know—a madman!”

“That may indeed be the case,” Pitt agreed, although already he was aware of an undercurrent of something else, a sense of fear with the shock and the grief, and other emotions more
complex, harder to define. “I expect Inspector Tellman already asked you if you were aware of anyone who might have quarreled with Captain Winthrop or held any grudge against him.”

“Yes—yes, he did ask that.” Mina’s voice was husky and she was very pale. “It is a fearful question. It makes me quite ill to think anyone one knows could have felt so dreadful a hatred as to do such a thing.”

“Superintendent, you are distressing my sister quite unnecessarily,” Bart said in a hard voice. “If either of us knew of such a person, we would have said so. We have nothing we can add to what we have already told your inspector. Now I really think that is enough. We have tried to be civil and as helpful as lies within our power. I would—”

He got no further because there was a knock on the door and a moment later the butler appeared.

“Mrs. Garrick and Mr. Victor Garrick have called, ma’am,” he said somberly. “Shall I tell them you are not receiving visitors?”

“Oh no,” Mina responded with a look of relief. “It is only Thora. I will always see Thora, she is so—so—yes, Bunthorne, please ask them to come in.”

“Really, my dear, do you not think you should rest?” Bart remonstrated.

“Rest? How on earth can I rest?” she demanded. “Oakley was murdered last night.” Her voice choked. “His head—cut off! The last thing on earth I wish is to be left alone in a dark room with my eyes closed and my imagination free! I would immeasurably rather talk to Thora Garrick.”

“If you are quite sure?”

“I have not a doubt in my mind!” she insisted with a rising note close to panic.

“Very well—yes, Bunthorne, ask her to come in,” Bart acceded, a look of pain in his face.

“Very good sir.” Bunthorne withdrew immediately.

A moment later the door opened again and a handsome woman with shining fair hair came in. She was followed immediately by a man in his early twenties with a broad-browed face which at first seemed blandly amiable but on closer regard was of unusual softness and imagination. And yet also there was a certain indiscipline in it, a vulnerability about the mouth, as if he might easily be hurt, and quick to anger. Perhaps he might also be as quick to laugh. It was an interesting face, and
Pitt found himself staring, and he had to withdraw his gaze for fear of being offensive.