Hyde Park Headsman Page 4

  Mina smiled nervously. Her hand jerked up as if to her face, then instead touched the black lace at her throat.

  Bart winced and his hand tightened on her shoulder, almost as if he were supporting her, even though she was seated.

  Victor stood perfectly still, his expression unchanging.

  “He was a naval officer,” Thora went on, still looking at Pitt, and apparently unaware of the emotion in the room. “I think you cannot realize what sort of life such men lead, Superintendent. He was not unlike my late husband.” She straightened her shoulders a fraction. “Victor’s father. He was a lieutenant, and would certainly have reached captain had he not been taken from us in so untimely a fashion.” Her face lit with an inner radiance. “Such men have great courage and are powerful both as to character and person. And of course you cannot command in dangerous situations, such as obtain at sea, if you are not an excellent judge of men.” She shook her head to dismiss such a weakness. “Captain Winthrop would not have kept the acquaintance of anyone of such violence and instability as to attack another person in so heinous a fashion. He must have been set upon by lunatics, that is the only possible answer.”

  “I was not imagining it to be an acquaintance, ma’am,” Pitt said, not entirely truthfully. “I was wondering if anyone else might have seen him, and thus know where he was and at what time he was last seen alive.”

  “Oh—I see,” she conceded. Then she frowned. “Not that I understand how that would help. There can hardly be hordes of criminal lunatics in Hyde Park. I know London is in a fearful state.” Her eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “There is anarchy everywhere, talk of sedition and rebellion, and Lord knows, enough trouble in Ireland, what with the Fenians and the like, but one may still walk safely in the better streets of London! Or at least one had supposed so.”

  “I’m sure one can, my dear,” Mina murmured. “This is all a nightmare. I still think it may have been some sort of hideous accident—or foreigners perhaps.” She looked at Pitt. “I have heard that the Chinese take opium, and it does all sorts of—well …”

  “It sends them to sleep,” Bart contradicted. “It doesn’t make them violent.” He glanced at Pitt. “Is that not so, Superintendent?” He did not wait for an answer but continued to speak to Mina. “No, I think, quite frankly, that it is someone from Oakley’s ship who has had a quarrel with him and has maybe drunk too much and lost his temper and his self-control. I have known drink, particularly whiskey, to produce uncharacteristic violence.”

  Mina shivered. “I suppose you could be right.” Her eyes did not leave Pitt’s face. “I cannot help you, Superintendent. Oakley never discussed his professional life with me. He—he thought it would bore me, I suppose. Or that I would not understand.” A shadow of regret or embarrassment crossed her face. “I daresay he was right. It is an area of life about which I know nothing.”

  Bart muttered something under his breath.

  Victor flashed a sudden smile at Mina.

  “You should not mourn that, Aunt Mina. My father talked about it incessantly, and believe me, it was only interesting the first time, and that was so long ago I cannot remember it anymore.”

  “Victor!” Thora’s voice was full of surprise and reproach. “Your father was a great man! You should not speak lightly of him in that way. He set a fine example for all of us, in every kind of moral excellence.”

  “I’m sure we all know Lieutenant Garrick was a very fine man,” Mina said soothingly, glancing up at Pitt. Then she smiled at Victor. “But I do understand even the finest people can now and again become tedious when one has heard a story before. And familiarity can occasion a certain loss of respect. It is one of the small crosses that families have to bear, my dear.”

  Victor’s face tightened, the muscles in his smooth jaw setting hard and his eyes looking far away.

  “You are quite right, Aunt Mina. Being boring is a very slight thing, hardly a sin at all, just a misfortune. If I’m going to criticize I should reserve it for the sins that really matter.”

  “Better still not to speak about them at all.” Thora nodded, apparently satisfied.

  Pitt would have liked to interpose, but there was no way he could ask Victor what sins he had in mind without being so obvious he would receive no useful answer. Anyway, Oakley Winthrop would hardly have been murdered because he was a bore—of whatever proportions. He turned to Mina.

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Winthrop, you would give me the names and addresses of any of the naval men Captain Winthrop knew, and whom he might have seen recently; any, perhaps, who live in this part of London.”

  Bart Mitchell looked up keenly.

  “A good idea. If there were a quarrel, some seaman who imagined a grievance, they may well know of it. There may even have been a court-martial or something of that sort. Someone dismissed, or punished severely, perhaps some event that seemed an injustice …”

  “Do you think so?” Mina said quickly, moving around in her seat to look up at him rather than twist her neck. “Yes, that does seem a reasonable answer, doesn’t it?” She looked back. “Mr. Pitt?”

  “We shall certainly investigate it,” he agreed.

  Thora looked uncertain. “Do you really think naval officers would behave in such a way?” She shook her head. “I cannot imagine it. They are highly trained, used to command and to self-discipline.”

  “They can still lose their tempers like anyone else.” Victor pushed out his lip and stared straight ahead of him. He opened his mouth as if to continue, then changed his mind and stood tight-lipped.

  “Oh that’s nonsense!” Thora said sharply. “They are not like anyone else. If they behaved in such a way, Victor, they would not be raised to command, far less retain it.” Her voice gathered conviction. “You should have gone into the navy. I’m sure a fine career would have been open to you. You have all the skills, and your father’s name was highly enough honored that they would have given you every chance.”

  Victor’s expression closed over, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

  “I think that’s a little harsh, Thora,” Bart said quietly. “Architecture is an honorable profession, and it is surely a sin to waste a real talent. And there is no doubt Victor is gifted. His drawings are very fine indeed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell,” Victor said with cold resentful calm. “But unfortunately that is not seen as a brave and magnificent thing to do.”

  “Don’t be foolish, dear,” Thora said with a forced smile, the patience in her voice dying before she reached the second sentence. “Of course it is. It is just … uncertain. And we have such a fine naval tradition in our family, it would have pleased your father so much. Tradition is important, you know. It is the backbone of our country. It is what makes us English.”

  Victor did not reply.

  Mina looked from one to another of them. The others seemed momentarily to have forgotten Pitt.

  “I expect he would have been just as pleased with a fine building,” she offered tentatively. “And certainly he could only have been pleased, listening to you play. I wonder: Victor dear, would you play for us—when we have a service of remembrance for Oakley? I should find it so uplifting. And you are almost family—after all, poor Oakley was your godfather.”

  Victor’s face softened immediately and his smile was beautiful, his eyes bright.

  “Of course, Aunt Mina I should love to. Tell me what you would like and I shall be honored to play it for you.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I shall think on the matter and let you know.” She turned to Pitt, again moving her head at a curiously rigid angle. “Victor plays the cello quite marvelously, Mr. Pitt. You have never heard anything lovelier. He seems to make the strings laugh and cry like a human voice. He can wring any passion from them he wishes, and take your heart with it.”

  “That is indeed a talent that it would truly be a sin to waste,” Pitt said sincerely. “I would a great deal rather make music than fight battles at sea.”

  Victor looked at h
im curiously, his broad brow slightly puckered with doubt and interest, but he said nothing.

  Thora was gracious enough not to argue the point further. She took up the thread of her original purpose in coming.

  “Is there anything we can do to help you, dear?” she asked Mina. “No doubt there will be lots of arrangements in due course. If I can assist, lend you my cook, or help with invitations or letters, please let me know.”

  “How kind of you,” Mina said with a smile of gratitude. “Even your company would be most welcome. It is such a grim task to perform alone. I admit I have barely thought of such things yet. My mind is still quite stupid with shock.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Thora said quickly. “Anyone’s would be. How you are bearing up at all is a miracle. You are extraordinarily brave. You are worthy of the great sisterhood of naval widows that stretches back through history. Oakley would be proud of you.”

  A look of profound, unreachable emotion crossed Bart Mitchell’s dark face.

  Victor let out his breath very slowly.

  “Did Captain Winthrop have any other family, apart from his parents?” Pitt asked in the silence.

  Mina’s attention jolted back to the present.

  “Oh no—no, just Lord and Lady Winthrop.” She used their titles, and Pitt had the impression that was how she thought of them, rather than merely a formality she was pursuing because he was not of their social standing.

  “There will be his ship, of course,” Bart offered. “But I will take care of that. Although with the newspapers writing as they do, no doubt they will all know by now anyway. Still, a notification from the family would be a courtesy, I suppose.” He pulled a small face. “Oh, I forgot, Superintendent, you wished a note of the other officers who live in the area. I believe he has some record of those with whom he kept in touch, somewhere in his desk in the library. If you wait a few moments I will fetch it for you.” And excusing himself to Thora Garrick, he left the room.

  “If you will forgive me, Superintendent.” Thora turned to Pitt with a faint flush in her cheeks. “I do not wish to appear to tell you your business, but you will learn nothing of poor Captain Winthrop’s death here. You should be out in the streets or asking in the asylums if anyone has broken out. Surely a person who has committed such an act must be plain to observe. He cannot be sane in any sense of the word.” She raised her fair eyebrows. “You will be able quite easily to find at least one person who has seen him. Possibly several.”

  Victor bit his lip and stared at the ceiling.

  Mina looked at Pitt.

  “It is possible, ma’am, and we will certainly try,” Pitt replied. “But I do not hold out a great deal of hope. Madmen do not all have wild hair and staring eyes. I am afraid many of them look as normal as you or I most of the time.”

  “Really?” Thora said with cool disbelief. “I would have thought after an act like this he must be quite easy to see. No one could do what has been done and look like an ordinary person.”

  Pitt did not argue, there was no point, and he was spared the necessity of an answer by Bart Mitchell’s returning with an address book which he held out in his hand.

  “There you are, Superintendent. I think it may prove very useful. There is a full list of his ship’s company and their home addresses. The more I think of it, the more I agree you are right, and that it is probably some quarrel or fancied injustice which someone has brooded upon, perhaps drunk too much, and temporarily lost all reason.” His face brightened. “And that would account for the weapon. After all, it is not inconceivable that a naval officer might have in his possession a cutlass or some such sword.” He looked hopeful.

  Mina put both her hands up to her face.

  Victor let out his breath in a little gasp and straightened himself as if he had momentarily lost his balance.

  “Really, Bart,” Thora said reprovingly. “I am sure you did not mean to, but you are being rather indelicate, my dear. It is a most distressing thought, and one we do not need to pursue. I am sure the superintendent is much more used to this kind of matter, and we do not need to point the way for him.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” Bart was contrite. He turned to his sister. “Mina, my dear, I do beg your pardon.” Then he looked at Pitt. “I don’t think there is anything else we can do for you, Superintendent. If you will be good enough to leave us, I would like to take care of my sister and begin whatever arrangements are most advisable in the circumstances.”

  “Of course,” Pitt agreed. “Thank you for sparing me so much of your time. Good day, Mrs. Winthrop, Mrs. Garrick, Mr. Garrick.” And he inclined his head very slightly and took his leave, collecting his hat from the pale-faced butler in the hallway before stepping out into the sharp spring sunshine. His mind whirled with impressions of grief, anxiety, close family pain, and something else he could not as yet grasp clearly enough to name.

  Later Pitt performed that other necessary but most disagreeable task at the outset of any such investigation: he visited the mortuary to look for himself at the body of Oakley Winthrop. He did not expect it to tell him anything that he could not have deduced from Tellman’s report. But there was always the remote chance that he would observe something, even gather some impression, however faint, which later would clarify into meaning.

  He hated mortuaries, their very bareness smelled sour and sickly and there was always a chill, even in summer. He found himself shivering as he told the attendant his purpose. There had been no need to give his name, he was already only too familiar.

  “Oh, yes sir,” the attendant said cheerfully. “I bin expectin’ yer. Thought as this one’d bring yer ’ere. Nasty, it is. Very nasty.” And turning on his heel, he led Pitt briskly to the room where the body was laid out under a sheet, its form unfamiliar, inhuman without the bump where one looked for the head. “There y’are, Mr. Pitt, sir!” He whipped off the sheet with the air of a conjurer producing flowers from a hat.

  Pitt had seen many corpses before, and each time he tried to prepare himself, and as always, failed. He felt a sinking in his stomach and a strange, slightly dizzy sensation in his head and throat. The remains of Oakley Winthrop lay naked and very white on the marble slab of the table. Without a head, a face, he seemed without dignity, even without humanity.

  “What have you done with his head?” Pitt said involuntarily, then wished he had not. It exposed the rawness of his emotion.

  “Oh …” the attendant said absentmindedly. “I put it on the bench. I suppose I’d better put ’im all together.” He went to the bench in question and carefully picked up a large object covered with a cloth, unwrapped it dextrously and brought it over to Pitt. “There y’are, sir. That’s all of ’im.”

  Pitt swallowed. “Thank you.”

  He looked conscientiously, avoiding nothing, but he did not learn any more than he already knew from Tellman’s report, and what the coroner would have said in time. Oakley Winthrop had been a big man, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscular but now running to softness and the beginning of fat. He looked well fed, smooth, his hands very clean. There were no marks or bruises on him at all, except the lividity Pitt had expected from the natural settling of blood in a corpse when its heart no longer pumped. There was no other discoloration, no breaking of the skin. His hands were immaculate, nails unbroken.

  Then he looked at the head. The hair was sandy brown and clipped short. Across the top of the scalp there was hardly any at all. He did not try it, but he knew it would be impossible to pick it up that way. He turned to the features. They were unremarkable, and without expression or life it was hard to guess what character they had betrayed. He could not detect the marks of humor or imagination, but it was unfair to judge.

  Finally he forced himself to look at the wound, if one could call a complete severing such a thing. It was fairly clean, done by a simple, very powerful blow with some very sharp weapon, possibly designed for the purpose. It might have been a person of great strength, or alternatively someone perfectly
balanced and striking from a considerable height, and using the force of weight and a long swing, as with a broadax.

  The smell of the place was catching in his throat, and he was very cold.

  “Thank you. That’s all, at least for now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitt. Want ter see ’is clothes? ’E were dressed very smart, like; naval captain, they say. Nice uniform. Pity about the blood. Never seen so much in all me life.”

  “Anything in his pockets?”

  “Only what yer’d expect, a little money, letter from ’is wine merchant, that’s ’ow we knew ’is name, I reckon. A few keys, reckon wine cupboard or desk or the like; domestic anyway. ’Andkerchief, couple o’ callin’ cards, cigar cutter. Nothing interestin’, no threatening letters.” He smiled sepulchrally. “Got another nasty one, Mr. Pitt. I reckon there’s a madman loose somewhere.”

  “Do you,” Pitt said dryly. “Well cover him up and let us know when the coroner has been.”

  “Yes sir. Good night sir!”

  “Good night.”

  Pitt arrived home tired and still unable to shake from himself the smell of the mortuary. He let himself in the door and took his boots off before going along to the warmth and light of the kitchen.

  Charlotte did not turn around immediately; she was busy stirring a steaming pan on the large black cooking range.

  “Hungry?” she asked without looking at him.

  He sat down wearily at the scrubbed wooden table, letting the warmth surround him and breathing in the odor of the clean linen, flour, cooking, the coal and heat of the range, the well-washed floor.

  She swung around, opened her mouth to speak, then saw his face.

  “What?” she said gently. “Something bad, I can see it.”

  “Murder,” he replied. “A beheading, in Hyde Park.”

  “Oh.” She took a deep breath, pushing her hair off her brow. It was bright like polished chestnuts in the lamplight. “Soup?”