Hyde Park Headsman Read online

Thora blushed with pleasure and uncertainty.

  “Do forgive me, Mrs. Garrick?” Emily begged, clasping Charlotte’s arm. “Do you know my sister, Charlotte Pitt? No, of course you don’t, or she would have prevented me from making such a ridiculous mistake.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” Thora said nervously.

  “Oh—of course, if you are not Mrs. Waters, then you do not know me either,” Emily exclaimed. “I am Emily Radley. I am so delighted to make your acquaintance—that is if you will consider me an acquaintance?”

  “Of course. I am very happy to.” Thora gave the only possible answer.

  Emily smiled radiantly. “How generous of you! Especially at a moment of grief. Did you know poor Captain Winthrop well? Or is it indelicate to inquire?”

  “No, of course not,” Thora denied. “Although I have known him a long time. He served with my dear husband, who was a most outstanding man, not at all unlike poor Captain Winthrop. They both excelled in all manner of fields of endeavor, of the body and of the mind. They both had such a sense of duty, of purpose. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Oh, of course,” Emily said quickly. “Some men are immovable from the course of what is right, no matter what temptations are set in their path.”

  Thora’s face lit with an inner radiance.

  “Exactly! You know it precisely,” she agreed. “One has to be immovable at sea. Mistakes can cost lives. My dear Samuel was always saying that. He would have everything done just so, to the inch and to the minute. Dear Captain Winthrop was the same. I do so admire command in a man, don’t you? Where would the world be if we were all haphazard, depending upon intuition and hoping for the best, as I am afraid I am inclined to do too much of the time.”

  “Artists, I expect,” Emily replied with a tiny frown. “And terribly unreliable. I imagine you were very fond of Captain Winthrop, then, if he had so many fine qualities in common with your late husband?”

  “I had the highest regard for him,” Thora agreed warmly, but there was the slightest shadow of guilt in her answer. “In fact he was my son’s godfather, you know?” She smiled and turned to her left to indicate a young man with the same fair hair as herself, but the superficial resemblance in feature was almost negated by the difference in expression. The visionary delicacy in her was a serene certainty, as if she could see beyond the masks of the present to some greater truth whose beauty she believed utterly. In him there was still a searching, the pain of guilt and disillusion were marked in his eyes and his lips. He was someone far from the haven of knowledge in which she rested At the moment he was settling himself in a small cleared area with a cello held lovingly in one hand, his bow in the other. “That is he,” Thora said quietly.

  “Is he going to play?” Charlotte asked with interest. It seemed so far from the picture of a stiff, dogmatic naval officer which she had had well in her mind.

  “Mina Winthrop asked him to,” Thora agreed. “He does play very well, but I think perhaps she asked him because he was so fond of her, and I know it eased the sadness of this whole affair for him that he should be able to contribute in some way.”

  “How thoughtful of her,” Emily agreed. “It is remarkable at such a time for her to show so much sensitivity to the feelings of someone else. I do admire that”

  “So do I,” Charlotte agreed. “I have barely met her, and yet I feel most warmly towards her.”

  “I must introduce you more properly,” Thora said quickly. “After the music …” She stopped as a hush fell over the room and everyone turned towards Victor, perhaps more from courtesy than a real desire to listen. However, when he put the bow to the strings and drew it across, a shudder seemed to pass through the air, and a sound of such aching loneliness, that what had begun as good manners simply became total absorption. He did not play from a sheet of music but from memory, and seemed to draw it from the depths of some awful bereavement of his own.

  Charlotte looked at the widow and saw a smile touch her lips as she watched him play. It was a heartrending piece, and yet it did not draw tears from her so much as a calm gratitude. Perhaps she had already wept all she could. Or on the other hand, maybe she was still numbed from the shock of her loss, and its manner.

  Lord Winthrop stood very pale-faced and seemed to be keeping his emotions in check with difficulty. Lady Winthrop tried and failed. The tears filled her eyes and spilled over. One or two women moved a little closer as if to protect her, or give her some kind of support by sheer physical nearness.

  Thora Garrick, next to Charlotte, stood very straight, her face shining with pride as if it were a military funeral. He might have been playing the Last Post, rather than a lyrical lament in solo voice.

  “He is very gifted,” Charlotte said when the last note died away. “He plays with true inspiration.”

  “I admit I have never heard him play so well before,” Thora said with some surprise. “Although I suppose what I often hear is simply practice. But he was very close to poor Captain Winthrop. Oakley was so like his own dear father, who passed away in the line of duty several years ago.” Her voice was thick with emotion and her gaze was fixed far away.

  “Poor Victor was only seventeen. It is terrible for a boy to grow up without a father, Mrs. Pitt.” She shook her head slightly, frowning. “A terrible thing. The power of example is so great, do you not think? And with all the devotion in the world, a mother cannot give that to a boy. The manliness, the honor, selfless dedication to duty, above all the self-mastery.”

  Charlotte had not thought of it in that light. She had had no brothers, and her son, Daniel, was too young to think of such qualities.

  Thora did not seem to require an answer. “Poor Oakley gave him that, as much as he could. He was always encouraging him, telling him stories of the navy, and of course he would have given him every assistance to obtain a commission, had Victor been willing.” A shadow of hurt and annoyance passed over her face.

  “You must have been very fond of Captain Winthrop,” Charlotte murmured.

  “Oh, indeed,” Thora said frankly. “I could hardly help it, he was so like my poor Samuel in all his qualities. A woman has to admire such men, don’t you think? And count herself fortunate to have obtained the esteem of two in her life. And Samuel was so devoted to us. I have to remind Victor of that, or I fear in time he will forget.”

  In anyone else Charlotte might have taken Thora’s remarks to mean that her relationship with both men had been of a similar nature, but there was such fervid innocence in her eyes she could not believe it to be more than an idealistic admiration.

  But did Mina Winthrop know that? Or was it conceivable she mistook this ardent emotion for love? Was she, beneath that cool, fragile exterior, a jealous woman? And what about her brother? Charlotte looked across the room searching for Bart Mitchell. It took only a moment to find him, standing alone almost in the shadows of one of the great pillars which supported a small minstrel gallery at the side of the room. His eyes were unwavering, and as well as she could judge, following the line of his vision, it was Thora Garrick at whom he was staring.

  Was she mistaken in reading it as innocence? Had that heady admiration been too intoxicating for Captain Winthrop’s vanity to resist? And had Bart Mitchell seen it?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Thora Garrick touching her very lightly on the arm. “Now I must introduce you to Mina,” she said quietly in the flutter of applause as Victor ceased playing a second piece. “I am sure you will find her most charming. So totally unselfish, you know.”

  And indeed Mina was very gracious, and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Charlotte in a less perfunctory fashion than their previous introduction. After only a few moments they were talking intently about furnishings and decor, a subject in which Mina seemed to have a considerable knowledge.

  It was half an hour later, when they had partaken of the excellent food which loaded the heavy oak table and sideboard, that Charlotte rejoined Emily.

  “Have you learned anything?
” Emily asked immediately. “Of value, I mean.”

  “I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied. “More a matter of impressions. I could not help liking Mina Winthrop.”

  “Being likable, unfortunately, does not make one innocent,” Emily replied. “And some of the most insufferably tedious people, full of humbug, can be as pure as the day. At least of the crime in which one is interested. Of course they may indirectly have brought about all sorts of disasters …”

  “I am not begging the issues of guilt and innocence,” Charlotte responded. “Fascinating though they are. And I know perfectly well that she might be guilty, at least vicariously, through a lover. Oakley Winthrop sounds the sort of man from whom one might well have needed a little relief. Something of a hero, according to Mrs. Garrick.” She moved aside to allow an elderly lady to pass, leaning heavily on her husband’s arm. “Her eyes shine when she mentions his name,” she continued. “Although always in conjunction with her dead husband and the fact that Captain Winthrop stood in for him where Victor is concerned. Doesn’t he play the cello beautifully? I can’t see him striding the quarterdeck shouting commands, can you?”

  “If he commanded anything at all, I imagine it would be a musical quartet,” Emily replied. “I don’t think we have accomplished much.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Really, I find Mr. Uttley completely odious. He is so certain of himself. I wish I knew a nice juicy piece of scandal about him, something really delicious which people would laugh about and repeat to everyone else.”

  “Well just don’t you be the one to do it,” Charlotte warned with alarm. “It will rebound on you!”

  “I know. I know. But it is an awful shame. Now if it were Mr. Hurlwood, I know a lovely piece about him, although of course I have no idea if it is true!”

  “Is that important? Since he is not running against Jack?”

  “No of course it isn’t, but apparently he has a mistress.”

  “How very ordinary,” Charlotte said with disgust. “In fact it’s perfectly tame. He is a very striking-looking man. I am not at all surprised. Do you suppose his wife would be surprised if she knew?”

  “She died a short while ago,” Emily replied with certainty. “I suppose it’s not very interesting really.”

  “What is Mr. Uttley’s wife like?”

  “Really quite nice, in a sort of a way,” Emily conceded grudgingly. “I suppose …”

  “Be careful, Emily.” Charlotte became serious. “Jack refused the Inner Circle once. They won’t forgive him for it. I expect Mr. Uttley knows about it. Unless I have everything completely mistaken, Mr. Uttley is a member and will use his influence to beat Jack in any way he can. Don’t do anything to give him a weapon with which to wound you.”

  “I won’t,” Emily said with equal gravity. “And believe me, Charlotte, Jack is not the only one in danger. They have no love for the police either, except those of them who are in the Circle themselves. They will make things as difficult as they can for Thomas. And this Winthrop murder will not be solved quickly, I think. If it was someone who knew him, a personal enemy of a very terrible kind, then Thomas has a mighty task ahead of him, and no forgiveness from the public or the government, who cannot afford another embarrassment, and no help from anyone who is of the Inner Circle, because he is not one of them.”

  “You are right,” Charlotte said grimly. “Perhaps we had better try a little harder?”

  “Well I am with you all the way,” Emily promised. “Anything I can do, or any other help I can give, it is yours.”

  “Thank you, thank you, my dear. Now let us go and speak to people and see if we can learn anything further about the late Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, and his family, and those who profess to have come here to mourn him.” And she took Emily’s arm as they moved forward together.

  4

  T OM ILES WAS a musician of very moderate ability but immense enthusiasm. There was hardly anything which dampened his natural delight, and as he strode through Hyde Park towards the bandstand, he was singing cheerfully to himself, his trumpet swinging in his hand in its leather case. His sheet music was in his pocket, folded up, which made it harder to read but so much easier to carry. It meant he could stride out with a swagger, expressive of his soaring spirits.

  He fully expected to be the first to arrive; he frequently was. Although today he was even more previous than usual. The long early morning light was almost turquoise on the dew-laden grass and there were clouds of small birds chattering in the trees.

  He saw the octagonal outline of the bandstand ahead and increased his pace, singing a little more loudly. Then he stopped, observing with surprise an odd sense of irritation that he was not the first after all. There was someone sitting in one of the seats, apparently asleep. Now that really was an offense! If the indigent had to sleep in the open, then they should do so somewhere else. Tom Iles would tell him so.

  “Good morning, sir!” he called out from some dozen yards away. “I say—you really can’t stay here, you know. This is a bandstand and we shall be practicing any moment. Sir! I say!”

  The wretched fellow was slumped with his head so far forward it was invisible.

  “I say!” Tom Iles leaped up the step and then tripped over nothing in particular as his legs gave way under him. He landed hard, bruising himself painfully. His heart was beating with such violence it sent the blood thumping in his ears, his mouth was dry and his stomach lurching.

  Slowly he straightened up. Yes, it was still there. He really had seen the appalling thing that was imprinted on his mind. The man sitting in the bandstand had no head. But it was there—on the floor—a little to the left of his feet, the dark hair with its silver streaks still quite smooth, the face turned down into the floor. Thank God for that!

  He stayed on his knees for several more minutes. It was ridiculous, but there was no strength in him. His arms wobbled as if he had just exerted himself lifting an enormous weight. He felt sick.

  He must go and tell someone. There was bound to be a constable on the beat somewhere near here! He must find him. He must stand up—but not for a minute or two. Wait until his brain stopped spinning and his stomach calmed down.

  “Arledge, sir,” Tellman said, staring at Pitt. “Aidan Arledge.” He stood in front of Pitt’s desk. It was half past eight in the morning and already he looked tired. His long, thin face had a gauntness built into the bones and the lines of exhaustion around his mouth and eyes. “Found in the bandstand in Hyde Park this morning, about a quarter to seven. Trumpet player going to practice. Got there before anyone else—and found him.”

  “Beheaded, I assume?” Pitt said quietly. “From the fact you brought it to me immediately.”

  “Oh yes, sir, taken right off and left on the floor near his feet,” Tellman said with something not unlike satisfaction. His lip twitched as he met Pitt’s eyes.

  “Who is he? What sort of a man, do you know?” Pitt asked.

  “Tall, distinguished-looking, about fifty-five or so,” Tellman replied. “Thin, very light, I should think. Gentleman. Soft hands. Never done a day’s work with them.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “Cards on him. Nice little silver card case, with his name engraved and half a dozen cards inside.”

  “Address?” Pitt asked.

  “No. Just his name. Oh, and a little musical note. Affected,” Tellman said with contempt. “Why on earth would anyone put a musical note on their card?”

  “Singer?” Pitt suggested. “Composer?”

  “Well certainly not in the halls!” Tellman gave a dry laugh. “His clothes were expensive, best tailors, Savile Row, shirts from Gieves.”

  “Any money on him?” Pitt asked.

  “Not a halfpenny.”

  “Nothing at all? Not even coppers?”

  “Not a farthing. Just a handkerchief, a pencil, and two sets of house keys. He must have been robbed. No one goes out without even the price of a newspaper, a cab ride, or a packet of mat
ches.” Tellman met Pitt’s eyes, challenging them. “Funny they left the card case, though. As if they wanted us to know who he was, don’t you think? Come to that, his shirt studs were still in.”

  “Maybe they were interrupted,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “More likely they didn’t want the card case. Not easy to sell a thing like that.”

  “Sane,” Tellman said with a twist of his mouth. “Very sane, this madman of ours. Knows what will do him good and what won’t. But then it makes you wonder why he didn’t take the money the first time, from Winthrop, doesn’t it?”

  “It makes me wonder a lot of things,” Pitt replied. He looked at Tellman’s dark, flat eyes, giving nothing. He decided to preempt the criticism he thought was in Tellman’s mind and say it himself. “I thought Winthrop’s murder was personal. Now it begins to look as if it was a lunatic after all.”

  “Does, doesn’t it?” Tellman agreed. He lifted his chin a trifle, his face almost expressionless. “Maybe it isn’t a society case after all, just ordinary police work? Unless, of course, our lunatic is a gentleman?” A flash of humor crossed his eyes and vanished again. He said nothing, staring at Pitt and waiting for him to continue.

  “I suppose lunacy can afflict any walk of life,” Pitt agreed, knowing that had nothing to do with what Tellman meant. “But less likely, simply because there are fewer of them. What does the medical examiner say? Any struggle?”

  “No sir. No other injuries at all, or scratches. No bruises. Hit on the head, like Winthrop, that’s all.”

  “And his clothes?” Pitt asked.

  “Damp in a few places,” Tellman replied. “As if he lay on the ground. Muddy here and there, but nothing torn, and nothing soiled with blood, except around the neck as you would expect.”

  “So he didn’t fight either,” Pitt said.

  “Doesn’t look like it. Will you be dropping the case yourself then, sir?” He assumed an air of innocent inquiry.

  It was absurd. His words were ambiguous, but always sufficiently respectful to keep him from charges of insolence, and underneath them his expression, his true meaning, was challenging, resentful, itching for Pitt to make a mistake professionally serious enough to lose him his position. They both knew it, although Tellman would have denied it with a smile if he had been accused.