The Hyde Park Headsman (8 page)

“Can’t see that it matters,” Tellman replied. “He saw a boat on the water at two o’clock. It’s not police business if he gives us the right name or not—or where he’d been. If gentlemen go around bedding other gentlemen’s wives, that’s their way, and nothing to do with our case. He was a gentleman, that I know. You don’t have to be a detective to tell the difference.”

“And of course a gentleman couldn’t have killed Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop!” Pitt said sarcastically. “If this informant of yours had a good voice, good manners and clean shoes, then it couldn’t have been he who committed murder….”

Tellman’s face flushed a dull red. He glared at Pitt and remained silent.

“We’ll assume it’s the truth unless we find otherwise,” Pitt said pleasantly. “That’s a step forward. What did you find in the boat?”

“No blood, except the bit from the bleeding after he was dead.”

“Any signs of another person there?”

“Such as what? They’re pleasure boats. There could have been a hundred other people in it at one time or another. Even this last week!”

“I am aware of that, Tellman. Maybe one of them killed Winthrop.”

“Without leaving any blood, sir? The man’s head was cut off!”

“What about over the side?”

“What?”

“What if he leaned over the side?” Pitt asked, his voice rising
as the picture became clear in his mind. “What if they were in the boat together and the murderer dropped something in the water, drawing Winthrop’s attention to it. Winthrop leaned over, the murderer hit him over the head, then struck his head off—into the water? The blood would all go over the side!”

“Possible,” Tellman said grudgingly, but there was a certain admiration in his voice, and a lift of excitement. “Could have been done like that!”

“Was the hair wet? Think, man! You saw it!” Pitt said eagerly.

“Difficult to tell, sir. Wasn’t much of it. Very thin, almost bald on top.”

“Yes. I know that. But what there was of it. The sides—the whiskers?”

“Yes—yes I think there were. But I’m not sure if there was water in the bottom of the boat—bilges …” He was reluctant yet to grasp the full implications, but he could not keep the urgency and the lift out of his voice.

“In a pleasure boat? Nonsense,” Pitt dismissed it.

“Then yes, sir, the whiskers were wet—I think.”

“Blood?”

“No—not a lot.” Tellman did not take his eyes from Pitt’s.

“Wouldn’t there have been a lot if the head had simply fallen where he was killed?” Pitt asked.

Still Tellman was cautious. “I don’t know, sir. It’s not something I ever experienced before. I would think so, yes. Unless one held the head up to kill him.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How would one hold the head up? He had hardly any habón top.”

Tellman breathed out, his eyes bright. He gave in at last.

“Then I expect you’re right. I daresay he was killed in the boat, leaning over the side, and his head fell in the water. We’ll never prove it.”

“Look at the boat carefully,” Pitt ordered, leaning back in his seat. “There may be a mark in the wood somewhere, a nick or a scratch. It must have been a very powerful blow, not easy to control. It would prove our theory.”

“Yes sir,” Tellman said steadily. “Anything else, sir?”

“Not unless you have something further to report.”

“No sir. What would you like after that, sir?”

“I’d like you to find that weapon, and continue to learn whatever you can about the man’s movements that night. Someone may have seen him.”

“Yes sir.” The old insolence returned as if he could not help it. The resentment was too deep. The truce was over. “And what about Mrs. Winthrop? Are you going to look into her a lot more? See if she had a lover? Or would that be too offensive to the family?”

“If I find out anything relevant, I’ll inform you,” Pitt said coolly. “Offensive or not. Now go and drag the Serpentine.”

“Yes sir.”

Pitt would rather have dragged the Serpentine than do the job he knew he should do next. He had been turning it over in his mind since leaving Portsmouth, debating whether it was really necessary or not. It might well prove useless in that it would turn up no new information, but that was not the only aspect to consider. There was the professional courtesy, and the fact that if he did not, the omission could prove expensive. Above all, he questioned himself, would Micah Drummond have gone; and he knew the answer without hesitation. He would have.

Accordingly, in the late morning Pitt found himself in the library of Lord Marlborough Winthrop’s house in Chelsea, not more than a stone’s throw from the Thames. It was a solid, gracious house, but lacking in any individuality of style, and the library where Pitt was waiting was unimaginative in its use of leather, gold tooling, rich mahogany, and heavy, pillared mantel shelf. After barely one glance around it he could have closed his eyes and described the rest of what he would see, and he was not mistaken.

Lord Winthrop himself, when he closed the door silently behind him and stood facing Pitt, was a man of indeterminate features, sandy hair and an expression which was lugubrious in the extreme, although whether that was his nature or the present circumstances it was not possible to say. Pitt felt in his mind it was the former. There seemed no softening in his face, no mellower lines around the eyes. He looked as if laughter did not come easily to him. He reminded Pitt queasily of the bloodless face in the morgue, the same features, the same mottled coloring. Of course today he was dressed entirely in black.

“Good morning, Mr….” He looked at Pitt, trying to gather
some impression of him, to place his social status to know how to treazt him.

“Superintendent Pitt.” He still liked the sound of the title, and then felt self-conscious for having spoken it The man might prove to be pompous and superficial, but he had just lost a son in a fearful manner. His grief and his shock would be real. To judge him now would be a far greater offense than any he was likely to commit.

“Oh—yes,” Winthrop agreed as if memory were returning. In spite of being a big man and broad shouldered, he was not imposing. His size seemed more of an encumbrance to him than an asset. “Good of you to come.” But his voice suggested that it was merely Pitt’s duty, and his own thanks were a question of courtesy, no more. “Of course Lady Winthrop and I are most anxious to know what progress you have made in this terrible affair.” He looked at Pitt, waiting for him to reply.

Pitt swallowed the desire to explain that his errand was one of discovery. Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was he who was mistaken. Micah Drummond’s job had included a large element of diplomacy. It was something he would have to learn if he were to fill his shoes. Odd, but now that he was more senior, he was also less his own master. He was accountable in a way he had not been before.

“We have witnesses, sir,” he said aloud. “People who passed by the park at various times during the evening and certain parts of the night, and it would seem as if the crime must have been committed at about midnight—”

“You mean someone saw it?” Lord Winthrop was incredulous. “Good God, man! What is the world coming to when such an act can be perpetrated in a public place in London, and men see it and do nothing! What is happening to us?” His face was growing darker as the blood suffused his cheeks. “One expects barbarity in heathen countries, outposts of the Empire, but not here in the heart and soul of a civilized land!” There was both anger and fear in his voice. He stood in the middle of his familiar room with all its trappings of social and economic safety, a frightened man, confusion threatening him in spite of it all. “Brutal murders in Whitechapel eighteen months ago, and nobody even caught for it.” His voice was rising. “Scandal about the Royal Family, whispers everywhere, moral decay setting in, vulgarity in everything.” Self-control was fast escaping him. “Anarchists, Irishmen all over the place. The whole of society is on the brink of ruin.” He took a deep,
shaky breath, then another. “I apologize, sir. I should not allow my personal feelings to be so—outspoken …”

“I am sure you are not alone in believing we live in most trying times, Lord Winthrop,” Pitt said tactfully. “But actually I did not mean that anyone saw a crime committed, only that there was no one on the Serpentine when a young couple passed at ten o’clock, that two men were seen walking in Rotten Row a little bit before midnight, and that at two in the morning there was a boat on the water, apparently drifting. Since Captain Winthrop died approximately between eleven and midnight, as an estimate, that would seem to suggest it was midnight.”

Lord Winthrop’s voice leveled with an effort. “Ah—yes, I see. Well, what does that prove? It hardly apprehends anyone!” His expression tightened as if he had smelled something distasteful. “Only too obviously there are gangs of murderous thieves at loose in the heart of London. What are you doing about it, I should like to know. I am not one to criticize the established authorities, but even the most lenient of us has to say that the police force has a great deal to do to justify itself.” He was standing in front of the mantel shelf, with a very traditional Chelsea vase on it, and behind his shoulder, on the wall, a painting of a calm, ordered landscape. “You have much to do to redeem your reputation, sir, after the Whitechapel affair,” he continued. “Jack the Ripper, indeed! What about madmen who would”—he swallowed—“decapitate a man for a few pounds?”

“It is not likely that he was robbed, sir,” Pitt interposed.

Lord Winthrop’s nostrils flared. “Not robbed? Rubbish, sir! Of course he was robbed! Why else would a gang of cutthroats set on a complete stranger who was merely taking an evening stroll in the park? My son was a man of excellent physique, Mr. Pitt, superb in sports, especially the noble arts of self-defense. ‘A healthy mind and a healthy body’ was his motto, and he was always as good as his word.”

Pitt was reminded suddenly of Eustace March, Emily’s uncle-in-law, insensitive, pompous, opinionated and insufferable—and in the end tragic. Had Oakley Winthrop been like that? If so, it was not surprising someone had murdered him.

“There must have been several of them, and well armed, to have overcome him,” Lord Winthrop continued, his voice rising as his anger mounted. “What are you doing to permit the
situation to have reached this monstrous proportion, I should like to know.”

“As you say, sir.” Pitt kept a picture of Micah Drummond in his mind’s eye, the long, rather serious face with its aquiline nose and gray, innocent eyes. It was the only way he could control his temper. “Captain Winthrop was a fine man in the prime of life, in excellent health, and skilled in sport. He must have been attacked either by a greatly superior force, such as that of several people, possibly well armed, or else he was taken by surprise by someone he believed he had no cause to fear.”

Lord Winthrop stood motionless. “What are you implying?”

“That there appears to have been no struggle, sir,” Pitt explained, wishing he could move to ease the tension in himself, and yet the quiet room seemed to forbid anything but utter concentration on the tragedy in hand. “Captain Winthrop had no bruises upon his body or arms,” he continued. “No scratches or other marks, no contusions on his knuckles, nor were his clothes torn or scuffed. Had there been any struggle—”

“Yes, yes, yes! I am not a fool, man,” Lord Winthrop said impatiently. “I realize what you are saying.” He moved suddenly away from the mantel to stare out of the window onto the overgrown patch of dark laurels, his shoulders high, back rigid. “Betrayed—that is what it amounts to. Poor Oakley was betrayed.” He swung back again. “Well, Superintendent whatever-your-name-is, I expect you to find out who it was and see that he is brought to justice. I hope you understand me?”

Pitt bit back the response that rose to his lips.

“Yes, sir. Of course we will.”

Lord Winthrop was only partially mollified. “Betrayed. Good God!”

“Who was betrayed?” The door had opened without either of them noticing, and a slender woman with dark hair and large, heavy-lidded blue eyes stood just inside the room. Her manner was imperious and her face was full of passion, intelligence and anger. “Who was betrayed, Marlborough?”

Lord Winthrop turned to look at her, his face suddenly ironed of emotion.

“You do not need to concern yourself with it, my dear. It is better that you do not know the details. I shall tell you, naturally, when there is any news.”

“Nonsense!” She closed the door behind her. “If it has to do with Oakley, I have as much right to know as you.” She looked at Pitt for the first time. “And who are you, young man? Has someone sent you to apprise us of the situation?”

Pitt took a deep breath. “No, Lady Winthrop, I am in charge of the case and I came to assure you of every effort we can make, and to inform you of what little information we have already.”

“And is that indeed that my son was betrayed?” she asked. “Although if you have not caught the assassin, how can you possibly know that he was betrayed?”

“Evelyn, it would surely be much better …” Lord Winthrop began.

She ignored him completely. “How can you know anything of the sort?” she demanded of Pitt again, coming farther into the room and standing on the heavy ornate carpet. “If you are in charge of the case, why are you not out doing something? What are you doing here? We can tell you nothing.”

“There are several men out searching and asking questions, ma’am,” Pitt said patiently. “I came to inform you of our progress so far, and to see if you might be able to shed any light on certain aspects of the case—”

“Us? What on earth do you mean?” Her eyes were very large and deep set, a little too close together for true beauty. “Why do you say ‘betrayed’? If you are thinking of his wife, then that is total nonsense.” She gave a little shiver and her body moved, rustling the stiff silk of her gown. “She is devoted to him. The idea that she might have entertained notions about other men is quite absurd. I don’t know what sort of people you imagine we are.”

“He did not say—” Lord Winthrop began again.