Hyde Park Headsman Page 7

  “Me?” She was surprised. Then she considered it. “Yes, I suppose so.” She moved closer to the window and stared out at the light on the leaves. “Perhaps one of his neighbors has taken leave of his wits. Or do you imagine it is someone from the ship, someone racked with envy or some such thing? Perhaps Oakley beat him at some contest or other, or made a fool of him in some other way. Whoever it is, I expect you to find him and see to it that he is hanged.”

  “Of course he will,” Lord Winthrop said at last. “I have already discussed the matter with Mr. Pitt. He is aware of my feelings on the subject.”

  “He may not be aware that the Home Secretary is a relative of ours.” She turned and looked back at Pitt with sharp eyes. “As indeed are many other people of great influence. It is vulgar to be ostentatious about one’s family connections, nevertheless, I would have you keep in mind that we shall not rest until the matter is closed and justice is done for my poor son.” She raised her chin a little. “Now, we appreciate your coming to inform us of your intentions, but you had better not waste any more time standing here. Please accept our thanks and continue about your business.” She swiveled around to her husband, dismissing Pitt. “Marlborough, I have written to all the Walsingham side of the family. I think it would be better if you wrote to the Thurlows and the Sussex Mayburys.”

  “They will all be perfectly aware of it, my dear,” he said irritably. “The newspapers are full of it! Goodness knows, every little clerk and washerwoman in London will be familiar with the details of it by now!”

  “That is hardly the point,” she said. “It is our duty to inform the family properly. They will be insulted if we do not. They will wish to write to us to offer their condolences. And one keeps notices of deaths in the family. It is important.” She shook her head impatiently and the facets of her jet beads caught the light. “I have not written to the Gloucestershire Wardlaws yet, or to cousin Reginald. I shall have to order some more black-edged paper. One can hardly use ordinary deckle for such a purpose.”

  “Did Captain Winthrop ever speak to you of a rivalry?” Pitt felt as if he were interrupting, their attention had so obviously gone from him.

  “No.” Lady Winthrop turned back with some surprise. “Never, that I can recall. He wrote to us regularly, of course, and came here each time he was ashore, for dinner at least once. But I do not recall his ever having mentioned any enmity with anyone at all. He was remarkably well liked.” A frown creased her forehead. “I thought I had already told you so.”

  “People who are popular and successful can attract the envy of those who are less so,” Pitt pointed out.

  “Yes, of course. I am aware of that,” she retorted. “I have no idea. Surely that is your job to find out. Is it not what you are employed for?”

  “Oakley never mentioned anyone,” Lord Winthrop answered, putting his hand out tentatively towards his wife, then thinking better of it.

  “But then he was not given to speaking ill of others. I daresay he was not even aware of it.”

  “Of course he wasn’t aware of it,” she said brusquely, her brows drawn together. “The superintendent said he was taken by surprise. If it had been a man who hated him, he would have been on his guard. He was not a fool, Marlborough!”

  “Dammit, he trusted someone he should not have!” he said with a sudden burst of anger.

  She ignored him and looked at Pitt.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pitt I assume you will keep us informed. Good day to you.”

  “Good day, ma’am,” Pitt answered obediently, and walked past her to open the door and let himself out.

  Pitt had not mentioned to Lord and Lady Winthrop that it seemed the crime had actually been committed in the pleasure boat on the Serpentine, but the fact was confirmed to him the following day when Sergeant le Grange came to his office. He was a smallish, solid man with dark auburn hair and a good-looking face.

  “Looks as if Mr. Tellman was right, sir,” he said with satisfaction, standing in front of Pitt’s desk with a smile. “Crime was done right there in the boat, over the side. Very neat. All the blood gone into the water. Nothing to show.”

  Pitt gritted his teeth. It had not been Tellman’s idea and yet it would be ridiculously childish to point that out to le Grange, even if le Grange were to believe him. And if he did not, it would make Pitt look absurd.

  “You found a fresh nick in the wood,” he said very levelly.

  Le Grange’s brown eyes opened wide.

  “Yes sir! Did Mr. Tellman say so to you? He told me as he wouldn’t have time to come up and see you, as he had to go and talk with someone in Battersea.”

  “No, he did not tell me,” Pitt replied. “It is what I should have looked for in the circumstances. I assumed you did the same.”

  “Oh, not me, sir, except because Mr. Tellman told me to,” le Grange said modestly.

  “What did he go to Battersea for?”

  Le Grange stared straight ahead of him.

  “Oh, you’d better ask him that, sir.”

  “Are you still looking for the weapon?” Pitt asked.

  “Yes sir.” Le Grange pulled a face. “Not found anything at all so far. Don’t know where else to look. I think as he probably took it away with him. Ah well, he must have brought it. I suppose he would take it back the same way.”

  “You’ve dragged the Serpentine?” Pitt did not argue. It was unpleasantly likely the murderer still had the weapon, or had dropped it in any of a hundred other possible places. They could hardly drag the Thames for it. It would have sunk deep into the river mud ages ago.

  “Ah yes sir. Mr. Tellman is very thorough, sir. He made sure we did that, and did it properly. There is nothing in there now, sir, not a thing. You’d never credit the stuff we found!” His eyes opened a little wider. “Two perfectly good boots, both for the left foot. Shame about them. Don’t know how someone could lose them. Three different fishing poles. I suppose that’s easy enough to understand. All kinds o’ boxes and bags, and a hat that looked nearly new. You wouldn’t believe it! No money, o’ course.”

  “I will believe anything you tell me, Sergeant,” Pitt said without a flicker, and watched le Grange’s surprise with satisfaction. “Now what has Mr. Tellman told you to do next?”

  “He said as I should come up to you, Mr. Pitt, and see what you said we should do, you being in charge, like.” The expression in his face had altered somewhat since he came in, but it was still cautious, that of a man whose old prejudices die hard.

  With an effort Pitt ignored it. “Have you spoken to all the neighbors yet?”

  “Yes sir. No one said anything helpful. One elderly lady did see ’im start ’is walk in the evening, but since we already know from Mrs. Winthrop what time it was, it ’ardly adds to anything.”

  “Yes it does,” Pitt contradicted. “It confirms that she is telling the truth.”

  “You didn’t suspect ’er, did you, sir?” le Grange said with disbelief and a touch of sarcasm, all under the veneer of respect. “She’s really quite a small woman, sir. Tall, an’ all that, but must weigh like a feather. No flesh to her at all.”

  “Not of doing it herself, Sergeant, but it is not impossible she was involved. A great many crimes of violence are domestic in origin.”

  “Oh. Yes, well I suppose you’re right about that,” le Grange conceded graciously. “But I wouldn’t have thought a lady like that … well—I suppose you know the gentry, sir.”

  “It is a possibility, le Grange, that’s all. I assume nobody saw him approached by anyone else?”

  “No sir.”

  “And all these neighbors and acquaintances, were they all at home themselves?”

  “Sir?”

  “Can they account for where they were all night until about three in the morning, Sergeant?”

  “I dunno, sir.”

  “Then that’s what you do next. Find out!”

  “Yes sir. Will that be all, sir?”

  “Until you can answer that, yes!�
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  “Sir!” And le Grange turned on his heel smartly and went out, leaving Pitt irritated and knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

  There were other cases which required at least some of his attention, a major robbery, a fire which seemed like arson, an embezzlement from a company of stockbrokers. It was the afternoon of the next day when Pitt was told by a pale-faced and breathless sergeant that there was a gentleman from the Home Office to see him, and the moment after he stood back, with an anguished glance of apology, a tall, very distinguished man came into the room. The sergeant beat a hasty retreat.

  “Landon Hurlwood,” the man announced as Pitt rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, Superintendent. Forgive my calling upon you unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent, and I had a few moments I could spare.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hurlwood,” Pitt replied levelly. “Please make yourself comfortable.” He indicated the chair he had so often sat in himself when Micah Drummond had occupied this office. As Hurlwood accepted, Pitt sat in the easy chair and looked across at his visitor expectantly.

  Hurlwood was tall, almost as tall as Pitt, of slender build and still trim, although Pitt would have judged him to be in his late fifties. His hair was unblemished pewter gray, thick, and curled up over his ears. He had excellent, very dark eyes, and patrician features. He sat back and crossed his legs, totally at ease.

  “This appalling murder of poor Captain Winthrop, Superintendent,” he began, regarding Pitt with a slight smile. “What do we know so far?”

  Pitt outlined the facts, keeping all speculation and deduction to himself.

  Hurlwood listened intently. “I see,” he said at last. “I confess, this is worse than I had thought. One discounts a great deal that the newspapers have to say. I fear they are more interested in sensation than truth, and cater to the lowest of minds. But in this instance it seems they are not inaccurate, even if their choice of language is a trifle hysterical. Tell me frankly, Superintendent, what are your prospects of finding the lunatic who did this?”

  “If it is some chance madman, probably very little,” Pitt replied. “Unless he kills again and leaves more evidence next time.”

  “Good God! What a fearful thought! I assume that you do not think it was a band of robbers? No, I must say it seems unlikely. They would not have left anything on him, and you say there were coins in his waistcoat pocket, and a gold watch and the chain commonly known as an albert.” He moved his elegant head in a motion of denial. “And anyway, why on earth would thieves take off the poor man’s head? Thieves come armed with knives or cudgels, or even a garrote, but not an actual cutlass. So in your opinion it resolves to either a madman or someone he knew?” His lips tightened. “How very unpleasant.”

  “Less frightening to the public than a gang of thieves who behead their victims,” Pitt observed.

  “Oh true, quite true.” Huriwood gave a ghost of a smile. “Nevertheless we must clear it up as soon as possible. What I would like to know, if you can tell me, is if it has anything to do with the navy, in your opinion. It is not unnatural that the Admiralty should wish to know.”

  Pitt caught a whiff of fear, and could imagine the preparation for denial, and thence, the disclamation.

  “There is no evidence to suggest it yet,” he replied carefully. “I have been to Portsmouth and spoken to his lieutenant, who says that he had no quarrel there, and he was not killed until eight days after he came up to London.”

  “Indicative.” Hurlwood nodded his head, relaxing a fraction. “A long time to wait if one has a murderous quarrel. Hardly the heat of the moment. Still, not enough to rule it out.” He was easier; his long, elegant hands were no longer clenched, but he was not naive enough to accept escape so swiftly.

  “I also checked as many as possible of his colleagues and friends to see if they were in Portsmouth on the night of his death,” Pitt added. “So far they were all in Portsmouth at times close enough to midnight of that night that they could not have been in London, even on the fastest of trains.”

  “I see. Yes, that would be conclusive.” Hurlwood rose to his feet in a single, graceful motion. His clothes were beautiful. He made Pitt feel shabby. Micah Drummond would not have felt so far short in the comparison. He was not a dandy, but he had the elegance that comes without effort to the true gentleman.

  Pitt stood up also, his jacket bulging where his pockets were stuffed with notes the desk sergeant had given him and a ball of string from which he had recently tied up a parcel.

  “So you are left with a personal motive,” Hurlwood continued. “All the same, I imagine you will give it your fullest attention, Superintendent, in view of the nature of the crime and the distinguished family of the victim.” It was not a question but an assumption.

  “Naturally,” Pitt agreed. “But it is not a matter in which haste will be appropriate.”

  Hurlwood flashed him a broad smile. His teeth were excellent, and no doubt he was aware of it, but there was genuine humor in him, an appreciation of all that Pitt had not said.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I do not envy you, Superintendent. Very courteous of you to spare me your time. Good day, sir.”

  “Good day, Mr. Hurlwood,” Pitt replied, smiling himself at the euphemism. The day could hardly be good for any of them.

  * * *

  Hurlwood had been gone only half an hour when the sergeant returned, eyes wide again, breath catching in his throat. This time it was Giles Farnsworth, the assistant commissioner, who was a step behind him. He was smooth-faced, cleanshaven and perhaps ten years younger than Hurlwood. Today he looked angry and harassed. His white shirt was immaculate, his winged collar high and a trifle tight, his fair brown hair was thick and brushed back off his broad brow, but there was anxiety in his expression and the beginnings of a ragged temper.

  “Good afternoon, Pitt.” He closed the door behind him and remained standing.

  Pitt came around the desk. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “This damned Winthrop business,” Farnsworth said, his mouth pulled tight with distaste. “What have you done so far? We can’t let this one stand around. Police reputation is bad enough. We’ve never recovered from the Ripper and all the harm that did us. We can’t afford another episode like that!”

  “No reason to suppose we will have one again—” Pitt began.

  Farnsworth’s temper was intent and savage. “Good God, man! Of course it will happen again if we’ve got a criminal lunatic loose in Hyde Park. Why on earth would he be satisfied with one dead body?” He jerked his head angrily. “And if it’s a gang of robbers come from God knows where, they’d do it as long as they can get away with it! We’ll have panic in the streets again, people terrified to go out of their own doors, half the city paralyzed …”

  “Captain Winthrop was not robbed.”

  “Then it’s a madman!”

  “Neither did he put up any struggle.” Pitt kept his tone calm with an effort. He understood why Farnsworth was afraid. The political situation was tense. The Whitechapel affair had shown ugly manifestations of anarchy, a violence simmering frighteningly close to the surface. There was unrest in many of the major cities, the old sore of the Irish question was as painful as ever. The popularity of the monarchy was at its lowest ebb. It would not take much to spark the underlying fear into a blaze of destruction which would carry many of them away with it. “He was killed in the pleasure boat while leaning over the side, and with one clean stroke,” Pitt said aloud.

  Farnsworth stood still, his face tight and bleak.

  “What are you saying, Pitt? That it was someone he knew? He must have known him well. Why on earth does a naval captain get into a pleasure boat on the Serpentine, at midnight, with another man carrying an ax? It’s absurd. It’s very, very ugly, Pitt.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “Who is it? What was the man’s private life? What about the wife? If it’s scandalous, you are going to have to cover this up, if you can. I trust yo
u know that?” He fixed Pitt with a sharp stare.

  “I never expose people’s private griefs and sins voluntarily,” Pitt replied, but it was an equivocation, and Farnsworth knew it.

  “Winthrops are an important family, connections all over the place,” Farnsworth went on, moving his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. “For Heaven’s sake be discreet. And don’t pull faces, man! I know you’ve got to solve the case!” He bit his lip, looking at Pitt hard and obviously turning over something in his mind.

  Pitt waited.

  “It’s going to be difficult,” Farnsworth said again.

  The remark was so obvious Pitt did not reply.

  Farnsworth looked Pitt up and down closely, still cogitating. “You’ll need connections yourself,” he said slowly. “Not impossible. Self-made man, but that doesn’t rule out influence, you know.”

  Pitt felt a sudden stab of fear, but still he said nothing.

  “Just a few friends can make the world of difference,” Farnsworth went on. “If they are the right ones.”

  The fear subsided. It was not what Pitt had dreaded. He found himself smiling.

  Farnsworth smiled as well.

  “Good man,” he said with a nod. “Opens a lot of doors for you, furthers your career. Drummond was, you know?”

  Pitt went cold. It was the Inner Circle he was referring to after all, that secret society, outwardly benevolent, inwardly malign, which Drummond had joined in his innocence and regretted so bitterly afterwards. The price of brotherhood was the surrender of loyalties, the forfeit of conscience so that an unknown army helped you, and could call on your help, at whatever cost, whenever it chose. The price of betrayal was ruin, sometimes even death. One knew only a half dozen or so other members, as the need arose. There was no way to tell to whom your loyalty might be pledged, or in what cause.

  “No.” Pitt blurted out the word before realizing how foolish it would be, but he felt cornered, as if a darkness were trapping him and closing tight around him. “I …” He drew in his breath and let it out slowly.

  Farnsworth’s face was flushed with annoyance and there was a bright glitter in his eyes.