Hyde Park Headsman

6

PITT SAT at his desk staring at Tellman. He felt numb, as if he had been struck a physical blow and the flesh were still too newly bruised to hurt.

“Knightsbridge, just outside the park,” Tellman repeated. “Headless, of course.” His long face showed no inner triumph or superiority this morning. “He’s still out there, Mr. Pitt; and we aren’t any closer to the swine than we were in the beginning.”

“Who was he?” Pitt asked slowly. “Anything else we know?”

“That’s just it.” Tellman screwed up his face. “He was a bus conductor.”

Pitt was startled. “A bus conductor! Not a gentleman?”

“Definitely not. Just a very ordinary, very respectable little bus conductor,” Tellman repeated. “On his way home from his last run—at least, not on his way home: that’s the odd thing.” He stared at Pitt. “He lives near the end of the line, which is out Shepherd’s Bush way. That’s what the omnibus company said.”

“So what was he doing in Knightsbridge near the park?” Pitt asked the obvious question. “Is that where he was killed?”

Memory of past conversations flashed across Tellman’s face, of Pitt’s insistence, and then his own failure to find where Arledge had been killed.

“No—at least it doesn’t look like it,” he replied. “There’s no way you can chop a man’s head off without leaving rivers of blood around, and there’s very little in the gig he was in.”

“Gig? What gig?” Pitt demanded.

“Ordinary sort of gig, except no horse,” Tellman replied.

“What do you mean a gig with no horse?” Pitt’s voice was rising in spite of himself. “Either it’s a vehicle to ride in or it’s a cart to push!”

“I mean the horse wasn’t there,” Tellman said irritably. “Nobody’s found it yet.”

“The Headsman let it loose?”

“Apparently.”

“What else?” Pitt leaned back, although no position was going to be comfortable today. “You have the head, I presume, since you know who he was and where he lived. Was he struck first? I don’t suppose he had anything worth robbing him of?”

“Yes, he was hit first, pretty hard, then his head taken off cleanly. Much better job than Arledge, poor devil. He was coming home from work, still had his uniform on, and he had three and sixpence in his pockets, which was about right, and a watch worth about five pounds. But why would anyone pick a bus conductor to rob?”

“Nobody would,” Pitt agreed unhappily. “Have you been to the family yet?”

Tellman’s narrow mouth tightened. “It’s still only half past eight.” He omitted the “Sir.” “Le Grange is on his way, just to inform her, like. Can’t see as she’ll be any help.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the desk, staring down at Pitt. “We’ve got another lunatic. Seems he attacks anyone, as the fit takes him. No sense to it at all. I’m going to try Bedlam again. Maybe they refused someone, or let a maniac go a while back …” But his dark flat eyes registered no hope that it would produce anything. Then suddenly the emotion was there, raw and violent. “Someone’s got to know him!” he said passionately. “All London’s snapping at itself with suspicion, people are jumping at shadows, no one trusts anybody anymore—but someone knows him. Someone’s seen his face afterwards, and known he wasn’t right. Someone’s seen a weapon, or knows about it—they’ve got to!”

Pitt frowned, ignoring the outburst. He knew it was true, he’d seen the fear in the eyes, heard the sharp edge to voices, the distrust, the defensiveness and the blame. “This gig, where did it come from? Whose is it?” He sat down.

Tellman looked slightly taken aback, but he hid it immediately.

“Don’t know yet, sir. Not much in it, no easily identifiable marks.”

“Well you’ll know soon enough if it was his, although I can’t see a bus conductor going home in a gig,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Which raises the question as to why he was in it at all.”

“But it would be too much to hope it belonged to our lunatic.” Tellman curled his lip. “He’s far too fly for that!”

Pitt leaned farther back in his chair. Without thinking, he asked Tellman to sit down. “It raises the question of why use a gig at all,” he went on. “Let us assume it was stolen, if it did not belong to either of them. What did he want a vehicle for?”

“To move the body,” Tellman answered. “Which means he could have killed him anywhere—like Arledge.”

“Yes, but more probably either somewhere which would in some fashion betray him or—or somewhere which would be inconvenient to leave him,” Pitt said, thinking aloud.

“You mean where he would be found too soon, maybe?”

“Possibly. Where would this bus conductor have left the last bus?”

“Shepherd’s Bush station, Silgate Lane.”

“Long way from Hyde Park,” Pitt observed. “Is that where he lived?”

“Quarter of a mile away.”

“Well he certainly didn’t need a gig for a quarter of a mile. See if someone had a gig stolen from that neighborhood. Shouldn’t take long.”

Tellman preempted his next question, leaning back a little in his chair.

“Don’t know where he was killed yet, but should be somewhere around there. Unless he hit the poor fellow on the head and took him somewhere in the gig, so he could do the job in private. It’s not actually so easy to cut a man’s head off. Needs a swing and a lot of weight behind it.” He shook his head unhappily. “Wasn’t done in the gig. Could have taken him somewhere and tipped him out, cut off his head, then put the head and the body back in the gig and driven it to Hyde Park. But why? It doesn’t make sense any way you look at it.”

“Then there’s something about it we don’t know yet,” Pitt reasoned. “Find out what it is, Tellman.”

“Yes sir.” Tellman rose to his feet, then hesitated.

Pitt was about to ask him what he wanted, then changed his mind.

“You know,” Tellman said slowly, “I still don’t know whether it’s a lunatic or not. Even a madman’s got to have some sort of sense to pick people—some place, a job, or an appearance—something that set him off. And it wasn’t the same place, we know that. They didn’t look much alike.” He leaned a little on the back of his chair. “The first two, maybe, although Winthrop was a big man, Arledge was very thin, and probably ten or fifteen years older. But the bus conductor was a little bald fellow with wide shoulders and a potbelly. And he was still in his conductor’s uniform, so anyone would know he wasn’t a gentleman. In fact they couldn’t have mistaken him for anyone but who he was.” He frowned in irritation. “Why would anyone want to kill a bus conductor?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “Unless he saw something to do with the murders. Although how our madman knew that is beyond me.”

“Blackmail?” Tellman suggested.

“How?” Pitt tipped back in the chair again. “Even if he saw one of the murders, how would he know who the madman was, or where to find him?”

“Maybe he would,” Tellman said slowly, his eyes widening. “Maybe our madman is somebody he would recognize—somebody anyone would recognize!”

Pitt sat up a little straighter. “Someone famous?”

“It would say why he had to kill a bus conductor!” Tellman’s voice was firm and hard, his face bright with satisfaction.

“And the others?” Pitt asked. “Winthrop and Arledge?”

“There’s a connection,” Tellman said stubbornly. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s there. Somewhere in his black mind there’s a reason for those two!”

“I’m damned if I know what it is,” Pitt confessed.

“I’ll find it,” Tellman said between closed teeth. “And I’ll see that bastard swing.” Pitt forbore from comment.

The storm burst with the midday newspapers. The Hyde Park Headsman was on the front of every edition and there was a harsh note of panic in the screeds of print beneath. It was a little after one when Pitt’s door was flung open and Assistant Commissioner Farnsworth strode in, leaving it swinging on its hinges behind him. His face was white except for two high spots of color in his cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing about it, Pitt?” he demanded. “This lunatic is rampaging through London killing people at will. Three headless corpses, and you still haven’t the faintest idea who he is or anything about him.” He leaned over the desk towards Pitt, glaring at him. “You make the whole force look like incompetent fools. I’ve had Lord Winthrop in my office again, poor devil, asking me what we’ve done to find the man who murdered his son. And I’ve got nothing to tell him. Nothing! I have to stand there like a fool and make excuses. Everyone’s talking about it—in the street, in the clubs, in houses, theaters, offices, they’re even singing songs about it in the halls, so I’m told. We’re a laughingstock, Pitt.” His hands were clenching and unclenching in his emotion. “I trusted you, and you’ve let me down. I took Drummond’s word for it that you were the man for the job, but it begins to look as if it is too big for you. You are not up to it!”

Pitt had no defense. The same doubts had begun to occur to him, although he could not think what anyone else could have done, least of all a man like Drummond, who had never been a detective himself. Nor, for that matter, had Farnsworth.

“If you wish to place the case with someone else, sir, then you had better do so,” he said coldly. “I’ll pass over all the information we have so far, and the leads we intend to follow.”

Farnsworth looked taken aback. It was apparently not the answer he had expected.

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. You cannot just abdicate your responsibility!” he said furiously, taking a step back. “What information do you have? Seems from what your inspector says that it’s damned little.”

It was little, but it galled Pitt that Tellman had discussed it with the assistant commissioner. Even if Farnsworth had asked him, Tellman should have referred him to Pitt. It was a bitter thought that he could not expect loyalty even from the foremost of his own men. That was a failure too.

“Winthrop was killed in a boat, which indicates he was not afraid of his killer.” He began to list off the few facts they had. “He was hit from behind, then beheaded over the side, at around midnight. Arledge was also struck first, but he was killed somewhere other than the bandstand where he was found. He may or may not have known who killed him, but it is indicative that he was moved. If we can find where he was killed, it may tell us a great deal more. I have half a dozen men looking.”

“Good God, man, it can’t be far,” Farnsworth exploded. “How far can a madman carry a headless corpse around the heart of London, even in the middle of the night? How did he do it? Carriage, gig, horseback? Use your head, man!”

“There were no hoof marks or carriage tracks anywhere near the bandstand,” Pitt said stiffly. “We searched the ground thoroughly, and there was nothing unusual whatever.”

Farnsworth stood three paces away, then swung around.

“Well what was there, for Heaven’s sake? He didn’t carry him over his shoulder.”

“Nothing unusual,” Pitt repeated slowly, his thoughts racing. “Which means he was brought in something that passed that way in the normal course of events.”

“Such as what?” Farnsworth demanded.

“The gardener’s equipment …” Pitt said slowly.

“What? A lawn mower.” Farnsworth’s expression was filled with derision.

“Or a wheelbarrow.” Pitt remembered le Grange saying something about seeing a man with a wheelbarrow. “Yes,” he went on with increasing momentum. “A witness saw a wheelbarrow. That would have been it” He sat a little more upright as he said it. “He can’t have been killed far away. You can’t wheel a corpse ’round in a barrow through the streets …”

“Then find it,” Farnsworth commanded. “What else? What about this wretched bus conductor this morning? What has he to do with the other two? What was he doing in the park?”

“We don’t know that he was in the park.”

“Of course he was in the park, man. Why else was he killed? He must have been in the park. Where was he last seen alive?”

“At the end of his route, in Shepherd’s Bush.”

“Shepherd’s Bush?” Farnsworth’s voice rose almost an octave. “That’s miles from Hyde Park.”

“Which raises the question of why the Headsman brought him back to the park to leave firm,” Pitt said.

“Because his madness has something to do with the park, of course,” Farnsworth replied between his teeth, his patience fast wearing out. “He’ll have knocked him senseless when he found him, and brought him to the park to take his head off there. That’s obvious.”

“If he didn’t find him in the park, why kill him at all?” Pitt asked calmly, meeting Farnsworth’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Farnsworth said angrily, turning away. “For God’s sake, man, that’s your job to find out, and a dammed slow business you are making of it.” He looked back, his expression controlled. “The public have a right to expect more of you, Pitt, and so do I. I took Drummond’s counsel to promote you, against my own instincts, and I may say it looks as if I’ve made a mistake.”

He seized the newspaper he had dropped on the desk. “Have you seen this? Look!” He opened it to show a large cartoon of two small policemen standing with their hands in their pockets and looking at the ground, while the giant figure of a masked man with an executioner’s ax towered over a terrified London.

There was nothing to say. Farnsworth had no better ideas, but to point that out would be useless. He already knew it, which was part of what made him so angry. He too was helpless, and had to answer to the political pressures above him. This failure could end the hopes of his career. The men above him were not interested in excuses, or even reasons. They judged by results alone. They answered to the public, and the public was a fickle, frightened master who forgot quickly, forgave very little, and understood only what it wanted to.

He slammed the newspaper down on the desk.

“Get on with it, Pitt. I expect to hear something definite by tomorrow.” And with that he turned and stalked out, leaving the door still open.

As soon as Farnsworth’s footsteps had died away down the stairs, Bailey’s head appeared around the door, pale and apologetic.

“What is it?” Pitt looked up.

Bailey pulled a face. “Don’t take no notice of ’im,” he said tentatively. “ ’E couldn’t do no better, an’ we all know it.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” Pitt said sincerely. “But we’ll have to do better if we’re going to catch this—creature.”

Bailey shivered very slightly. “D’yer reckon as ’e’s mad, Mr. Pitt, or it’s personal? What I don’t understand is why that poor bleedin’ little bus conductor? Gentlemen you can understand. They might ’ave done somethink.”

Pitt smiled in spite of himself.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to find out what Arledge’s keys open, for a start.”

“Yes sir. Shall I tell Mr. Tellman, sir, or not—as I don’t really know where you’re goin’.” He opened his eyes wide. “I can’t say as I recall what you said.”

“Then if I don’t repeat it, you won’t know, will you?” Pitt said with a smile.

“No sir, I won’t,” Bailey agreed happily.

Pitt took the two sets of keys and left for Mount Street. He hailed a cab and sat back to think while the driver eased his way through the traffic, stopping and starting, calling out encouragement and abuse.

Dulcie Arledge received him with courtesy, and if she were surprised to see him she concealed it with the sort of sensitivity he had come to expect of her.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt.” She did not rise from the sofa where she was seated. She was still dressed entirely in black, but it was gracefully slender in the new line, with little peaks at the point of the shoulder.

She wore an exquisite mourning brooch of jet and seed pearls at her throat and a mourning ring on her slender hand. Her face was composed and she managed to smile. “Is there something further I can help you with? I hear that there has been another death. Is that true?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am afraid it is.”

“Oh dear. How very dreadful.” She swallowed painfully. “Who—who was it?”

“An omnibus conductor, ma’am.”

She was startled. “An omnibus conductor? But—but why would anyone—I mean…” She turned away as if embarrassed by her confusion. “Oh dear, I don’t know what I mean. Was it in Hyde Park again?”

He hated having to tell her at all. It seemed such an added offense to a woman of such courage and sensibility.

“Just outside it,” he said gently. “At least that is where he was found. We don’t know where he was killed.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and troubled. “Please sit down, Superintendent. Tell me what I can possibly do to help. I cannot think of any conceivable connection between my husband and an omnibus conductor. I have been searching my mind to think if Aidan ever mentioned Captain Winthrop, but I can think of nothing which would be of service. He knew a great many people, a large proportion of whom I never met.”

“Concerned with his music?” he asked, accepting the invitation to sit.

“Indeed. He really was very gifted, and so in great demand.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was a remarkable man, Superintendent. It is not only I who will miss him.”

Pitt did not know what to say. Weeping, fainting, hysterics were embarrassing and left any man helpless, but there was a quality in this quiet, dignified grief which was uniquely moving, and in its own way left him feeling even more inadequate.

She must have seen his consternation.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I have placed you in an impossible situation. What can you say? I should not have let my feelings intrude.” She folded her hands. “What else could I help with?”

He produced the keys out of his pocket and passed them to her.

She took them and looked at one set first, then at the second with a frown on her face.

“These are our household keys,” she said, holding aside the first set. “One is the front door. He used to come home late on occasions and would not keep the staff up to wait for him.” She smiled very bleakly, looking at Pitt. “The small ones are desk drawers and so on. I think this is for the cellar. There were times when he wanted to go down and perhaps get himself a bottle of wine without asking Horton.” She turned to the second set, a pucker between her brows. “But these I have no idea. I don’t recognize any of them.” She held up the two sets side by side. “They don’t look alike, do they?”

“No ma’am,” he agreed, and yet he saw in her eyes the same thought that occurred to him. They looked like another set of house keys.

She passed them back to him. “I’m sorry. I’m not being of any assistance.”

“Of course you are,” Pitt assured her quickly. “Your candor is invaluable. Few people would have the courage that you have in such fearful circumstances, let alone the clarity of mind to be of practical help. It distresses me to have to put it to you at all.” He meant it profoundly.

She smiled at him, warmth filling her face.

“You are very generous, Superintendent. Although with someone as sympathetic as you have been, talking of Aidan, and the whole tragedy, is not as difficult as you may imagine. It is never far from my mind anyway, and to be able to be frank is something of a relief.” She made a little gesture of rueful impatience. “People mean to be kind, but they will speak of anything else, skirting around the subject all the time, when we all know we are thinking of little else, whatever we may say.”

He knew precisely what she meant, he had seen it countless times before, the embarrassment, the averted eyes, the hesitation, then the rush into meaningless, irrelevant speech.

“Please ask me whatever you wish,” she invited.

“Thank you. On the possibility that Mr. Arledge actually met whoever killed him, or had some connection, however accidental or tenuous, I would like to follow his actions in the last week of his life.”

“What a good idea,” she agreed immediately. “I am sure I can help with that. I can bring you his diary of professional appointments. I kept it because I was looking ahead to see what he was doing, and of course I have since had to write a great many letters.” She shrugged delicately and pulled a little face of distaste. “I expect everyone read about it in the newspapers, or heard, but that is not the same.”

“I would appreciate it.” He had not asked before because Arledge’s professional engagements seemed so far removed from a violent murder by a madman.

“Of course.” She rose to her feet and he stood also, without even thinking, and it seemed a natural gesture of courtesy toward her.

She went to a small, inlaid walnut escritoire and opened it, putting her hand to a dark green leather-bound book and bringing it out. She offered it to him.

He took it and opened it where it fell naturally and saw the entry for the day of Arledge’s death. There was a notation of a rehearsal in the afternoon and nothing else. He looked up and met Dulcie’s eyes.

“He had only the one appointment that day?” he asked.

“I am afraid I don’t know,” she answered. “There is only one written there, but he did sometimes, in fact really quite often, go out on the spur of the moment. That diary was largely for professional engagements.”

“I see.” He turned the pages back for a week, then started reading forwards. Rehearsals, performances and luncheon and dinner engagements for meeting with various people connected with future projects were all written in a neat, strong hand with bold capitals and clearly legible cursive script. It was an elegant hand, yet not florid. “If I may take this, I shall see what I can learn.”

“Of course you may,” she said eagerly. “I can give you the names of certain people he worked with regularly. Sir James Lismore, for one; and Roderick Alberd. They would know many others, I am sure.” She stood up again and turned back to the desk. “I have their addresses in here somewhere. Lady Lismore is a friend of long standing. I am sure she would give you every assistance.”

“Thank you,” he accepted, unsure if it would prove of any value at all, and torn between the desire to know Aidan Arledge better and the dislike of finding that he kept a mistress. It would be an appalling burden for this woman to bear, on top of bereavement. He decided at that moment that if it were not relevant to the case he would keep silent, forget it as if it had never happened. He would be quite prepared to return the keys to her and lie about it, say he had failed to find the doors they opened.

He thanked her again, stood facing her in the quiet room trying to think of something further to say, to offer comfort or hope, and nothing came to him. She smiled and bade him good-bye.

“You will tell me—what you find, won’t you, Superintendent?” she said as he was almost at the door.

“If I find anything that leads to unraveling the mystery, I shall certainly tell you,” he promised, and before she could decide whether that was the answer she sought, he allowed the maid to show him out.

He began with the names she had given him. Roderick Alberd proved to be an eccentric with flying hair and whiskers in the manner of the late Franz Liszt, and his study in which he received Pitt was dominated by a grand piano. Alberd wore a wine velvet jacket and a large, very floppy cravat. His voice when he spoke was rasping and unexpectedly high.

“Oh, grieved, Superintendent,” he said with an expansive gesture. “In fact desolated. What a perfectly senseless way to die.” He swiveled around to stare at Pitt with surprisingly intelligent blue eyes. “That is the sort of thing that should happen to rakes and bullies, unsophisticated men of violence without taste or culture, not to a man like Aidan Arledge. There was nothing uncouth or predatory in his nature. It is an affront to civilization itself. What have you done about it?” His look narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“I am trying to learn where he went and whom he saw in the last few days—” Pitt began, but was interrupted.

Alberd threw up his hands. “Good heavens, what for? Do you suppose this madman knew him personally?”

“I think their paths may have crossed,” Pitt acceded. “I do not think he was chosen entirely at random. Can you help me? Your name was given me by his widow.”

“Ah yes, poor soul. Well—” Alberd sat down on the piano stool and flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles. His hands were extraordinarily wide with long, spatulate fingers. Pitt found himself fascinated watching them. Had anyone been strangled, those hands with their power would have haunted his dreams.

Pitt waited.

“He was killed on a Tuesday, as I recall. Found Wednesday morning, yes?” Alberd began, then apparently not requiring an answer, he continued. “Well on the Monday I saw him. Middle of the afternoon. We discussed a recital next month. I shall have to find someone else to conduct now. I confess, I had not even thought of that.” He cracked his knuckles again. “When he left me he said he was going to visit a friend, I forget whom. It was of no concern to me, not anyone I knew—not a musical person, I believe.”

“If you could remember …”

“Good heavens, Superintendent, surely you don’t imagine …? No, I assure you, it was a friend of long standing. I believe a close friend.” He looked at Pitt with amusement.

“What else can you tell me about his work, who else may know his movements that week, Mr. Alberd?”

“Oh, let me see …” He thought for several moments, staring at the floor, then finally gave Pitt a list of his own engagements for the time, and all those occasions in which his path had crossed that of Aidan Arledge, or in many instances, places or functions he knew Arledge would have attended. When he had finished it was a surprisingly complete picture.

“Thank you.” Pitt excused himself and took his leave with considerable hope.

He also visited Lady Lismore, and from her suggestion several others. Three days later he had learned where Aidan Arledge had been most of the last week of his life, and several places he visited regularly. Certain names occurred again and again. He determined to question them all.

In between he returned to Bow Street, often late in the evening, to learn what Tellman had found.

“Don’t know where Arledge was killed,” he admitted sourly, looking at Pitt with irritation. “I’ve had men searching the length and breadth of the park, and every man on the beat for a mile in every direction has been told to keep his eyes open. Nothing!”

“What about Yeats, the bus conductor?” Pitt looked up at him without expectation.

“Don’t know where he was killed either.” Tellman sat sideways in the chair. “But there are one or two likely places in Shepherd’s Bush. At least we know where the gig came from. A man called Arburthnot reported it stolen from outside his house in Silgrave Road.”

“I presume you looked in that immediate area for a murder site?” Pitt asked.

Tellman withered him with a glance. “Of course we did. One of the most likely was in the railway siding just off Silgrave Road. Ground is so soaked with oil and covered with cinders and the like, it’s hard to tell if there’s been blood there or not.”

“Anyone see Yeats after he left the bus?”

Tellman shook his head.

“No one that’ll say so. Driver saw him off, said good-night, and said Yeats started along Silgrave Road. He lives in Osman Gardens, about four or five streets away.”

“Did anyone else get off the bus at the same time?”

“Half a dozen people.” Tellman pulled a face. “Says he can’t remember any of them because he had his back to them throughout the journey, and at the end all he could think of was getting home and putting his feet in a bowl of Epsom salts.”

“What about regular passengers?” Pitt asked. “They will have noticed if there was anyone unusual. What do they say?”

“Could only find one regular,” Tellman said grimly. “It’s not the sort of time for anyone who works, or goes to any place of trade or entertainment. It’s later than the theaters. Anyway, who goes to the city theaters from Shepherd’s Bush on a bus?”

Pitt was losing patience. “What did your one regular say? Have you learned anything at all, man?”

“As far as he could remember, there were six or seven people on the bus by the time it got to Shepherd’s Bush. At least four of them were men, one young, three older, and as far as he could tell, biggish. He couldn’t recall any of them. He was tired and had a toothache.” Tellman’s chin came up and his long face was tight. “And what have you learned … sir? Anything that would be of help to us?”

“I think Arledge kept a mistress, and I expect to find her within the next day or two,” Pitt replied, rather rashly.

“Ah …” It was hard to know from Tellman’s wince if he were interested or not. “Could explain Arledge’s death, if the lady was married, but why Winthrop? Or was he her lover as well?”

“I won’t know that until I have found her,” Pitt answered, standing up and walking over towards the window. “And before you ask, I don’t know what Yeats has to do with it either, unless in some way he knew something and was a blackmailer.” Below him in the street a hansom had stopped and a large man was alighting with difficulty. An urchin with a broom did not bother to hide his amusement.

Tellman raised his eyebrows. “The lady lived in Shepherd’s Bush?” he asked sarcastically.

“But a madman who kills without any pattern at all doesn’t make sense either,” Pitt replied.

“It has something to do with the park,” Tellman said decisively. “Or why bring Yeats all the way back in a gig? Much safer simply to leave him in Shepherd’s Bush. Why put him in the gig at all, for that matter?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want him left where he was,” Pitt suggested, leaving the window and sitting on the edge of the desk. “Maybe he brought him back to Hyde Park because that’s where our murderer lives.”

Tellman opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. “Maybe. Arledge’s mistress and her husband, I suppose? Perhaps she’s a very loose principled woman, and she was Winthrop’s mistress too? But surely not the fat little conductor’s?” His lantern face broke into a hard smile. “I’ll be entertained to meet this woman.”

Pitt stood up. “Then I had better get on and find her. You find out where Yeats and Arledge were killed.”

“Yes sir.” And still smiling to himself, Tellman stood up and went to the door.

But it was another two long days of painstaking work with petty details of discussions, meetings and partings, half-heard conversations and glimpses of people, before Pitt had traced a dozen or so of Arledge’s acquaintances and begun to eliminate them from any suspicion. He was losing heart. They were all very properly accounted for, and their relationships were above reproach.

Tired, sore footed and discouraged, Pitt presented himself at the door of a much respected businessman who had contributed funds to the small orchestra which Aidan Arledge had frequently conducted. Perhaps Mr. Jerome Carvell had a beautiful wife?

The door was opened by a tall butler with a long, curved nose and a supercilious mouth.

“Good evening, sir.” He looked Pitt up and down questioningly. Apparently he was uncertain of what he saw. The weariness and confidence in Pitt’s expression belied the rather sloppy abandon of his clothes and the dust covering his boots.

“Good evening,” Pitt replied, fishing for his card and giving it to him. “I apologize for calling so late, and unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent. May I perhaps speak with Mr. or Mrs. Carvell?”

“I will ask Mr. Carvell if he will see you, sir,” the butler replied.

“I should like to speak to Mrs. Carvell also,” Pitt insisted.

“Impossible, sir.”

“It is important.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose higher. “There is no Mrs. Carvell, sir.”

“Oh.” Pitt felt unreasonably disappointed. Even if Mr. Carvell were as good a friend to Arledge as he had been led to suppose, and knew of his personal life, he would not now betray it to the police.

“Did you wish to see Mr. Carvell, sir?” The butler looked a trifle impatient.

“Yes please,” Pitt replied, more out of irritation than hope.

“Then if you will come this way, sir, I will inquire if that is possible.” Turning on his heel, the butler led the way to a small, very gracious study, wood paneled and lined with shelves of leather-bound books which looked unusually well read, arranged in order of subject, not of appearance.

Pitt was left for barely five minutes, during which time he looked at the titles and noted such areas of interest as exploration, classical drama, entomology, medieval architecture and the raising of roses. Then the door opened and he saw a man of perhaps forty-five. His fairish hair was beginning to turn gray at the temples and his face was of marked individuality and extraordinary intelligence. No one would have called him handsome—his skin was marked by some past disease, perhaps smallpox, and his teeth were far from straight—and yet he had such humor and perception that Pitt found himself regarding him with immediate liking.

“Mr. Carvell?”

“Yes?” Carvell came in looking anxious. “Superintendent Pitt? Have I done something amiss? I was not aware of anything …”

“I doubt there is anything, sir,” Pitt replied honestly. “I am calling only in case you may have some knowledge which could help …”

“Oh dear. With what?” Carvell came farther in and waved absently for Pitt to sit down. He perched on one of the other easy chairs. “I don’t think I know anything remotely useful to the police. I am a man of business. I know of no crimes. Has someone embezzled money?”

He looked so transparently innocent Pitt almost abandoned the quest altogether. It was only the necessity of explaining his presence at all that made him continue.

“Not so far as I am aware, Mr. Carvell. It is in connection with the death of Mr. Aidan Arledge. I believe—” He stopped. Carvell’s face had gone completely white and he looked so profoundly distressed Pitt was afraid for him. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Pitt had been about to say “I believe you knew him”; but such a remark now would have been absurd. “Can I fetch you a glass of water?” he offered, rising to his feet. “Or brandy?” He looked around for a decanter or a tantalus.

“No—no—I apologize,” Carvell stammered. “I—I—” He came to a halt, not knowing what to say. There was no reasonable explanation. He blinked several times.

At last Pitt saw the decanter. It looked like Madeira in it, but it would be better than nothing. He could see no glasses, so he simply picked up the whole thing and held it to Carvell’s lips.

“Really—I …” Carvell stuttered, then took a long gulp and sat back, breathing hard. His face regained some color and Pitt put the decanter down on the table next to him and went back to his own seat. “Thank you,” Carvell said wretchedly. “I really do apologize. I—I cannot think what came over me….” But the grief in his face made it tragically obvious what had so robbed him of composure.

“No apology is necessary,” Pitt said with a strange, dull ache of pity inside him. “It is I who should seek pardon. I was extremely clumsy in broaching the subject so very bluntly. I take it you were extremely fond of Mr. Arledge?”

“Yes—yes, we have been friends for a great number of years. In fact since youth. It is such a—a terrible way to die….” His voice was husky with the crowding emotions he felt.

“It is,” Pitt agreed. “But I think you can be assured that he knew nothing of it One quick blow, and he would have lost sensibility. It is only terrible for those of us who now know the full details.”

“You are very considerate. I wish—” Carvell stopped abruptly. “I have no idea what I can tell you, Superintendent.” He looked at Pitt earnestly. “I know nothing about it at all. And I have naturally searched my brains to see if there is anything I could have done to prevent it, to foresee such—such an abominable thing, but I cannot. It was a bolt from nowhere! There was no”—he pulled his lips back in a ghastly caricature of a smite—“ ‘cloud bigger than a man’s hand’ on the horizon. One day everything was as usual, all the pleasures one takes for granted, the sun, the earth brimming with returning life, young people everywhere full of hopes and ambitions, old men full of memories, good food, good wine, good companionship, fine books and exquisite music.” He sighed. “The world in its ordered course. Then suddenly …” His eyes filled with tears and he turned away, ashamed, blinking to cover his embarrassment.

Pitt felt acutely for him.

“We are all very shaken by it,” he said quietly. “And very afraid. That is why I am obliged to intrude upon people in this fashion. Any help you can give, anything at all, may assist us to catch whoever is doing this. Did you know Captain Winthrop? Did Mr. Arledge ever speak of him to you?” He was evading the real issue, and he knew it, but he wanted to give Carvell time to regain his composure. Even while he was doing it, he knew it was tactically a mistake. Tellman would not have hesitated.

“Captain Winthrop?” Carvell looked totally confused. “Oh, yes, the first man who was … murdered. No. No, I cannot say I had heard of him before that Oh—just a moment. Yes, I had heard his name mentioned, by a Mr. Bartholomew Mitchell, with whom I have had slight dealings. About a matter of business. I believe it was Mrs. Winthrop’s name, in fact. Mrs. Winthrop is his sister, I think.”

“May I ask what business, sir?”

“He purchased some shares on her behalf. I cannot think it could possibly have any connection.”

“No, I cannot think of any either. When was the last time you saw Mr. Arledge?”

Again his face paled. “The evening of the day before he died, Superintendent. We had supper together after a performance. It was late and he knew his own household would have retired …”

“I see.” Pitt pulled the set of keys out of his pocket and held them up. He was about to ask if Carvell knew what they were when the expression in his face made the question unnecessary.

“Where—” he began, then fell silent, staring helplessly at Pitt.

“Do they fit doors in this house, Mr. Carvell?” Pitt asked.

Carvell gulped. “Yes,” he said huskily.

Pitt took the largest. “The front door?”

“The back,” Carvell corrected. “It—it seems …”

“Of course. And these?” He held up the other two.

Carvell said nothing.

“Please, sir. It would be most undignified to have to obtain a warrant and search through all the doors and cupboards and drawers in the house.”

Carvell paled even more and he looked desperately unhappy.

“Do you—do you have to … go through his—his things?” he stammered.

“What did he keep here?” Pitt asked with wrenching distaste. It was grossly intrusive, and yet he dared not avoid it.

“Personal toiletries.” Carvell spoke jerkingly, as if he had to wrench each item from his memory. “A little clean linen, evening dress, some cuff links and collar studs. Nothing that can possibly be of use to you, Superintendent.”

“A silver-backed hairbrush?”

“Yes—I think so.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I loved him, Superintendent. I have no idea whether you can understand what that means. All my adult life I …” He bent his head and covered his face with his hands. “What’s the use? I thought it would be a relief if I could share it with someone. At least be able to admit to being bereaved.” His voice choked with pain. “I had to keep it secret, pretend I was merely a friend, that he meant no more to me than that. Have you any idea what it is like to lose the person you love most in the world, and have to behave as if it were a mere acquaintance? Have you?” He looked up suddenly, his face stained with tears, his emotion naked.

“No,” Pitt said honestly. “It would be impertinent of me to say I know how you must hurt. But I can imagine it must be unbearably deep. I offer you my condolences, which I know are worth nothing.”

“Not nothing, Superintendent. It is something to have at least one person understand you.”

“Did Mrs. Arledge know of your—your regard?”

Carvell looked appalled.

“Dear Heaven, no!”

“You are sure?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Aidan was sure. I have never actually met her except for a few moments at a concert, quite by accident. I did not wish … Can you understand?”

“I see.” Pitt could only guess at the emotions of jealousy, guilt and fear which might have stormed through his mind.

“Do you?” Carvell said with only a thread of bitterness.

He looked utterly wretched. Pitt was acutely aware of his isolation. There was no one to comfort him in his grief, no one even to be aware of it.

Carvell looked up. “Who did this terrible thing, Superintendent? Is there really some demented soul loose in London with a lust for—for blood? Why should he have killed Aidan? He harmed no one….”

“I don’t know Mr. Carvell,” Pitt confessed. “The more I learn of the facts, the less I feel I grasp the elements of it.” There was nothing more to add, no questions he could think of that would have any meaning, even if he received an honest answer. He had come looking for a mistress, a cause for jealousy, a link with Winthrop. He had found instead a gentle, articulate man devastated with a very private and personal grief.

He excused himself and went out into the spring evening under a calm sky where an early moon had risen even before the sun had set.

“You’ve found her!” Farnsworth said the following morning, sitting bolt upright in the chair in Pitt’s office. “What about the husband? What is he like? What did he say? Did he admit any connection with Winthrop? Never mind, you’ll find it. Have you arrested him yet? When shall we have something to tell the public?”

“His name is Jerome Carvell, and he’s a quiet, respectable businessman,” Pitt began.

“For Heaven’s sake, Pitt!” Farnsworth exploded, his cheeks suffusing with color. “I don’t care if he’s an archdeacon of the church! His wife was having an affair with Arledge, and he found out about it and took his revenge. You’ll find the proof if you look for it.”

“There is no Mrs. Carvell.”

Farnsworth’s face fell. “Then what on earth are you telling me for? I thought you said you found the place where these alternative keys fitted? If he wasn’t having an affair, what on earth did he have keys to the house for?”

“He was having an affair,” Pitt said slowly, hating having to try to explain this to Farnsworth.

“Make sense, Pitt,” Farnsworth said between his teeth. “Was he having an affair with Carvell’s wife, or sister or whatever she is, or was he not? You are trying my patience too far.”

“He was having an affair with Carvell himself,” Pitt replied quietly. “If affair is the right word. It seemed they have loved each other for over thirty years.”

Farnsworth was dumbfounded, then as the full meaning of what Pitt had said dawned on him, he was filled with anger and outrage.

“Good God, man, you’re talking about it as if—as if it were …”

Pitt said nothing, but stared at Farnsworth with cold eyes, his mind filled with the tortured face of Jerome Carvell.

Farnsworth stopped, the words dying on his lips without his knowing why.

“Well you’d better get on and arrest him!” he said, rising to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re doing sitting around here.”

“I can’t arrest him,” Pitt replied. “There’s no evidence that he killed Arledge, and none at all that he even knew Winthrop.”

“For God’s sake, man, he was having an illegal relationship with Arledge.” He leaned over the desk, glaring at Pitt. “What more do you want? They quarreled and this man—what’s his name—killed him. You can’t need me to remind you how many murders are domestic—or spring from lovers’ quarrels. You’ve got your man. Arrest him before he kills again.” He straightened up as if preparing to leave, the matter settled.

“I can’t,” Pitt repeated. “There is no evidence.”

“What do you want, an eyewitness?” Farnsworth demanded, his face darkening with anger. “He probably killed him in his house, which is why you couldn’t find the site of the crime before. You have searched his premises, Pitt?”

“No.”

“You blithering incompetent!” Farnsworth exploded. “What’s the matter with you, man? Are you ill? I feared you were promoted beyond your ability, but this is absurd. Get Tellman to search the place immediately, and then arrest the man.”

Pitt felt his face burn with anger and a kind of embarrassment for both Farnsworth’s ignorance and assumption, and for Carvell’s crippling and so obvious emotion.

“I have no grounds for searching his house,” he said coldly. “Arledge stayed there sometimes. That is not a crime. And there is nothing whatever to connect Carvell with Winthrop or the omnibus conductor.”

Farnsworth’s lip curled.

“If the man is a sodomite he probably approached Winthrop, and when Winthrop rebuffed him he flew into a rage and killed him,” he said with conviction. “And as for Yeats, perhaps he knew something. He might have been in the park and witnessed the quarrel. He tried blackmail and was killed for his pains. Lose no sleep over that. Filthy crime, blackmail.”

“There’s no proof of any of it,” Pitt protested as Farnsworth took another step towards the door. “We don’t know where Carvell was the night Winthrop was killed. He may have been dining with the local vicar.”

“Well find out, Pitt!” Farnsworth spat between clenched teeth, his voice sharp with his own fear. “That’s your job. I expect you to report an arrest within forty-eight hours at the outside. I shall tell the Home Secretary we have our man, it is just a matter of collecting irrefutable evidence.”

“It’s a matter of collecting any evidence at all,” Pitt retorted. “All we know so far is that Carvell loved Arledge. For Heaven’s sake, if that were evidence of a murder, we should have to arrest the husband or wife of every victim in the country.”

“That is hardly the same,” Farnsworth said viciously. “We are talking about unnatural relations, not a normal marriage between husband and wife!”

“I thought you said most murders were domestic anyway?” Pitt said with a sharp note of sarcasm.

“Get out and do your job.” Farnsworth pointed his finger at Pitt. “Now.” And without waiting for any further debate he went out of the door and left it wide open.

Pitt went to the top of the stairs after him.

“Tellman!” he shouted, more violently than he had intended.

Le Grange appeared in the passageway at the bottom just as Farnsworth went out into the street.

“Yes sir? Did you want Mr. Tellman, sir?” he asked with elaborate innocence.

“Of course I did! What in the hell do you suppose I called him for?” Pitt retorted.

“Yes sir. He’s working on some papers—I think. I’ll ask him to come up, sir.”

“Don’t ask him, le Grange, tell him!” Pitt said.

Le Grange disappeared instantly, but it was another full ten minutes with Pitt pacing the floor before Tellman came in the door and closed it, his face registering bland complacency. No doubt Farnsworth’s exchange with Pitt had been heard, and reported over half the station.

“Yes sir?” Tellman said inquiringly, and Pitt was positive he knew perfectly well what he was wanted for.

“Go and get a warrant to search the house and grounds of number twelve Green Street.”

“Green Street?”

“Off Park Lane, two south of Oxford Street. It is the residence of a Mr. Jerome Carvell.”

“Yes sir. What am I looking for, sir?”

“Evidence that Aidan Arledge was murdered there, or that the owner, Jerome Carvell, knew Winthrop or the bus conductor, Yeats.”

“Yes sir.” Tellman went to the door, then turned and looked at Pitt with wide eyes. “What would be evidence of knowing a bus conductor, sir?”

“A letter with his name on it—or a note of his address, any reference to him,” Pitt replied levelly.

“Yes sir. I’ll get a warrant.” Before Pitt could add anything else, and make the remark that was on his tongue, Tellman was gone. Pitt strode to the door after him and stood on the landing.

“Tellman!”

Tellman turned on the stairs and looked up. “Yes, Mr. Pitt?” “You’d better be civil to him. Mr. Carvell is a respected businessman and has not committed any offense so far as we know. Don’t forget that!”

“No sir, of course not, sir,” Tellman said with a smile, then went on down the stairs.

Pitt went on the next errand he was loathing. He spent ten minutes in front of the mirror retying his cravat and adjusting his coat and rearranging the things in his pockets, trying to put off the moment. Eventually it became unavoidable, and he took his hat from the stand and went out and down the stairs. He stopped at the desk and the sergeant looked at his tidy appearance with surprise and some respect.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Arledge,” Pitt said huskily. “If Inspector Tellman comes back before I do, have him wait for me. I want to know what he found.”

“Yes sir! Sir …”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Do you think this Mr. Carvell did it, Mr. Pitt, sir?”

“No—no I don’t think so, but I suppose it’s possible.”

“Yes sir. Forgive me, sir, but I had to ask.”

Pitt smiled at him, and went out to find a hansom.

“Yes, Superintendent?” Dulcie Arledge said with her characteristic courtesy, and no apparent surprise. She was still dressed in total black, and as before it was beautifully cut, this time the full sleeves were decorated with black velvet bows at the shoulders, flat and neat and unostentatious. Her face pinched a little as she recognized him, a shadow crossing her eyes. “Have you learned something?”

He hated having to tell her, but there were questions he had to ask, and from their nature she would know there was ugliness and suspicion behind them. The fact that she had already guessed, at least in part, made it easier. They were in the withdrawing room and he waited for her to resume her seat, then sat on the elegant overstuffed sofa opposite her.

“I have found the doors for the keys, Mrs. Arledge,” he began.

She took a deep breath. “Yes?” she said huskily.

“I am sorry, it is another house.”

She looked at him without blinking. Her eyes were very steady and very blue. In her lap her hands were clasped together till the knuckles were white.

“A woman?” she asked very quietly, her voice little more than a whisper.

He wished he could have said that it was. It would have been better than what he had to say. He would like to have avoided telling her altogether but there was every possibility it was going to become public, and very soon, if Farnsworth had his way.

“Did you think that your husband might have been—might have cared for someone else?” he asked.

She was very pale and she avoided his eyes, staring down at the bright pattern of the carpet.

“It is something a woman has to learn to resign herself to, Mr. Pitt. One tries not to believe it, but …” She looked up at him suddenly. “Yes, if I am honest, it had occurred to me. There were small things, absences that he did not explain, gifts, things I had not given him. I wondered …”

There was no need to tell her it had lasted thirty years. He could at least spare her that.

“Superintendent.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She was searching his face. “Is she—married?”

The reason for her question was obvious; it was the same thought which had driven Farnsworth.

“Why do you hesitate, Superintendent?” she asked, anxiety in her voice now. “Is she—very young?” She stumbled over the word. “She has a father, perhaps? Or a brother …” She trailed off.

“The house belongs to a man, Mrs. Arledge.”

Her brow puckered.

“I don’t understand. I thought you said—” She stopped.

He could no longer evade the issue.

“The person your husband loved is a man.”

She was totally confounded.

“A—a man …?”

“I am sorry.” He felt brutal and guilty of a terrible intrusion.

“But that’s—impossible!” Suddenly her face flushed scarlet and her eyes were wide, stunned. “It cannot be. You made a mistake. It’s—no—no!”

“I wish I had, ma’am, but I have not.”

“You must have,” she repeated foolishly. “It cannot be….”

“He admitted it readily, and your husband’s belongings, among them a silver-backed hairbrush, a pair to the one upstairs, were in the dressing room.”

“It’s—horrible,” she said, shaking her head repeatedly, fiercely. “Why have you told me this—this—monstrosity?”

“I would much rather not have, Mrs. Arledge,” he said with intense feeling. “If I could have allowed his secret to die with him, I would have done so. But I need to ask a great many more questions, and from them you would have known that there was something.” He looked at her earnestly, willing her to believe him. “You would have been left with all the horror and the fears, until perhaps you would have read about it in the newspapers instead.”

She stared at him helplessly, her face still full of denial.

“What questions?” she said at last. Her voice caught in her throat, but it was obvious that at last her intelligence was reasserting itself, in spite of the horror and her new, unimagined pain.

“Any other friends to whom your husband was extremely close?” he said gently. “Perhaps you could show me all the gifts he received that you did not give him, or know where they came from. Can you recall any occasions on which he was distressed in the last three or four weeks? When you think perhaps he may have been involved in a quarrel or a situation of high emotional anxiety or trouble.”

“You mean—you mean he may have quarreled with this man … over some other person?” She was quick to seize the point and all its implications.

“It is possible, Mrs. Arledge.”

She was very pale. “Yes—yes I suppose it is. And when I look back, how dreadfully it makes sense.” She covered her face with her hands and sat motionless. He saw her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed deeply, in and out, in an effort to retain control of herself.

He stood up and went to the chiffonnier to see if he could find a decanter of sherry or Madeira to pour for her. It took him only a moment to see it and return with a glass. He waited until she looked up.

“Thank you,” she said very quietly, accepting it with trembling hands. “You are most considerate, Superintendent. I am sorry to have so little mastery of myself. I have had a shock I could never have imagined—in my wildest and most fearful dreams. It will take me some little time to—to believe it.” She looked down at the glass in her hands and sipped the sherry, and then her face crumpled. “I suppose I do have to believe it?”

He was still standing close to her.

“I am afraid it is true, Mrs. Arledge. But it does not invalidate all that was good in him, his generosity, his love and reverence for what was beautiful, his humor …”

“How can you …” she began, then bit back the words. “Poor Aidan.” She lifted her eyes. “Superintendent, will this have to be made public? Couldn’t he be allowed to rest in peace? It is not his crime that he was murdered. If he had died in his sleep no one would ever have known.”

“I wish I could promise it to you,” he said honestly. “But if this man is implicated in his death, then it will become public in all probability as soon as he is arrested. Certainly at his trial.”

She looked as if he had struck her. It was several moments before she could master concentration to form her next question, and he stood by helplessly, wishing there were anything at all he could do to ease her burden.

“Do you believe this—this man—killed Aidan, Superintendent?” she said at last, her voice tight with the effort of control.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I am inclined to think not. There is no evidence that he did, but it seems very likely that it is somehow concerned with their friendship.”

Her brows furrowed with her effort to grasp the incomprehensible.

“I don’t understand. What has Captain Winthrop to do with it? Or this other person—the omnibus conductor?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I think there may be someone else involved whose name we do not yet know.”

She looked away, towards the window and the sunlight in the garden beyond.

“How hideous. I am afraid it is all beyond my understanding.” Suddenly she shivered convulsively. “But of course I will give you any help I can. I am trying to realize I did not know Aidan nearly as well as I imagined I did. But what I do know, you have only to ask me, and I will tell you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your candor, ma’am, and your courage.”

She looked at him, smiling weakly. “Ask what you wish, Superintendent.”

He spent three more hours asking her gently every detail of Arledge’s life that he could think of and going through his belongings again, taking with him all those few personal items which she said she had not given him, nor, to her knowledge, had he bought for himself.

She showed him everything he asked to see, and answered all his questions with a simple candor, as if she were too stunned by the fearful revelation he had brought even to protect those few memories which normally would have been dearest and most private.

“We were married twenty years,” she said thoughtfully, staring at an old theater program. “I didn’t know he had kept this. It was the first concert he took me to. I was very unsophisticated then. I had just come from the country, where I grew up.” She turned the worn piece of paper over and over in her hands. “You would have thought me very naive then, Superintendent.”

“I doubt it, ma’am,” he said gently. “I grew up in the country also.”

She looked at him quickly, warmth in her face for the first time. “Did you? Where? Oh, I’m sorry, that is …”

“Not at all. Hertfordshire, on a large estate. My father was the gamekeeper.” Why had he told her that? It was something he never mentioned, part of a past which included pain and a loss which still hurt, an injustice never remedied.

“Was he?” Her eyes, clear and dark blue, were full of uncritical interest. “Then you love the land too; you understand its beauty, and sometimes its cruelty, its economy of survival? Of course you do.” She turned away, looking beyond the richly curtained windows to the rooftops and sky. “It seems so much … cleaner … doesn’t it? More honest.”

He thought how she must feel, the rage and confusion inside her over all the years which now must seem wasted, filled with betrayal, even memories twisted upon themselves and gone sour. She would recover from his death, it was a clean wound, but his deceit would hurt forever, it took away not only the future but the past also. Her whole adult life, twenty years, made a sham.

“Yes,” he said with profound feeling. “Much more honest. The quick kill of one animal by another is the necessity of nature and an honorable thing.”

She looked at him with amazement and admiration.

“You are a remarkable man, Superintendent. I am deeply grateful that it is you who are in command of this … this terrible affair. I would not have thought anyone could make this easier, but you have.”

He did not know what to say. Any words seemed trite, so he smiled in silence and turned to the next piece of paper, an invitation to a hunt ball, and slowly, with stumbling memory, she recalled the time and the event.

He left early in the evening feeling weary and profoundly saddened. From what he had learned, there were numerous opportunities for further entanglements. Oakley Winthrop could have been one of them, or Bart Mitchell, or almost anyone else.

He arrived at Bow Street to find Tellman waiting on the landing outside his office, his long, clever face creased with anger and concern. He had obviously been waiting some time.

“What did you find?” Pitt asked, reaching the top of the stairs.

“Not a damn thing,” Tellman answered, following him across the short space of the landing to the office door, then inside without waiting to be invited. “Nothing! He and Arledge were obviously lovers, but although that’s a crime, we couldn’t prosecute without seeing them doing it, unless someone complained. And since Arledge is dead, that’s not likely.”

“Arledge wasn’t killed there?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not unless he put his head over the bath and Carvell mopped the whole thing down afterwards,” Tellman said sarcastically. “He stayed there all right, half lived there, I shouldn’t wonder. But he wasn’t killed there.”

“I presume you looked in the garden as well?”

“Of course I did! And before you ask, it’s all covered with paving and flower beds or grass, and none of it has been dug up in years. I even looked in the coal cellar and the gardener’s shed. He wasn’t killed there.” He stared at Pitt, his brows drawn down in thought, his lips pursed. “Are you going to arrest him?”

“No.”

Tellman breathed in and out slowly. “Good,” he said at last. “Because I’m not sure as he didn’t do it. But I am damn sure we haven’t got a thing to prove that he did.” He winced as if he had been hurt. “I hate arresting someone and then not getting a conviction.”

Pitt looked at him, trying to read his face.

Tellman smiled bleakly. “Nor do I want to get the wrong man,” he added grudgingly. “Though God knows who the right one is.”

Emily’s concentration was torn in two directions. It was of primary importance that she give every possible help to Jack, even if all their efforts were almost certainly in vain. But she was also deeply concerned for Pitt. She had heard the remarks of various people with connections in government and political circles, and she knew the climate of fear and blame that prevailed. No one had any ideas to offer, and certainly no assistance, but the incessant public clamor had made them frightened for their own positions, and consequently quick to blame others.

Now that the by-election date had been announced there were speeches and articles to be delivered, and now and then a public appearance of a more social nature at a ball or a concert. Some of these were very formal, such as receptions for foreign ambassadors or visiting dignitaries, some of a more casual kind, such as the soiree this evening. Since Mina Winthrop was obviously in mourning, she could not be invited, similarly Dulcie Arledge, but Emily had done the next best thing by asking Victor Garrick to play the cello as part of the entertainment for her guests, and then naturally as he was there, Thora Garrick was invited as well. Emily was not sure what that might accomplish, but one did not require to see an end in order for it to be achieved.

The guests were almost all included for political purposes, people of influence of one sort or another, and the whole event would be hard work. There would be no time for the pleasant indulgence of gossip. Every word must be watched and weighed. Emily stood at the top of the stairs and gazed across the sea of heads, the men’s smooth, the women’s all manner of elaborate coiffeur, many of them bristling with feathers, tiaras and jeweled pins. She tried to compose her mind. There were at least as many enemies here as friends—not only Jack’s enemies, but Pitt’s as well. Many of them would be members of the Inner Circle, some peripheral, as Micah Drummond had been, hardly even knowing what it really meant. Others would be high in its rungs of power, able to call on debts and loyalties of staggering proportions, even of career or future if need be, and able to pronounce terrible punishments if disobedience or treachery were suspected. But no outsider knew which was which; it could be any innocent, smiling face, any courteous gentleman passing polite inanities, any harmless-seeming man with white hair and benign smile.

Involuntarily she shivered, not only with fear but with anger.

She saw the fair hair of Victor Garrick shining under the chandeliers and began her way down to greet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Garrick,” she said as she reached the bottom and approached him, standing with his cello held very carefully. It was a beautiful instrument, warm polished wood the color of sherry in sunlight, and richly shaped. Its curves made her want to reach out and touch it, but she knew it would be an intrusion. He held the instrument almost as if it were a woman he loved. “I am so grateful to you for consenting to come,” she went on. “After hearing you play at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service I could not think of anyone else.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Radley.” He smiled, meeting her eyes with unusual frankness. He seemed to search beneath the easy surface to know if she meant what she said, if she had any understanding of music and its meaning, its textures and values, or if she were simply being polite. He was apparently satisfied. A slow smile curved his lips. “I love to play.”

She sought for something further to say; the situation seemed to invite it.

“It is a very beautiful instrument you have. Is it very old?”

His face darkened immediately and a look of acute pain filled his eyes. “Yes. It’s not a Guanerius, of course; but it is Italian, and about the same period.”

She was confused. “Is that not good?”

“It’s exquisite,” he said in a soft, fierce whisper. “It’s priceless; money is nothing, meaningless beside this sort of beauty. Money is just so much paper—this is passion, eloquence, love, grief, everything of meaning. This is the voice of man’s soul.”

She was about to ask him if someone had insulted him by giving it a monetary value when her eye caught a blemish on the perfect smoothness of the wood, a bruise. She felt a sudden distress herself. The instrument had so many of the qualities of a living thing, and yet not the great gift of healing itself. That mark would remain forever.

She lifted her eyes and met his and saw them full of a blistering rage. There was no need to say anything. For that moment she shared with him all the helplessness and the loathing of the artist face to face with the vandal, the senseless damaging of irretrievable loveliness.

“Does it affect the sound?” she asked, almost certain in her heart that it did not.

He shook his head.

They were joined by Thora, looking extremely handsome with cascades of ivory lace from her shoulder to elbow, and swathed across a deep décolletage. The skirt was smooth and boasted only the smallest bustle. Altogether it was highly fashionable and most becoming. She looked at Victor with a slight frown.

“You are not distressing Mrs. Radley with that miserable accident, are you, dear? Really it is best forgotten. We cannot undo it, you know.”

He stared at her with an unwavering gaze.

“Of course I know, Mama. When a blow is struck, it can never be undone.” He turned to Emily. “Can it, Mrs. Radley? The flesh is bruised, and the soul.”

Thora opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She looked at the cello, and then at her son.

Victor seemed to be waiting for a reply.

“No,” Emily said hastily. “Of course it can never be undone.”

“Do you think we should pretend it didn’t happen?” Victor asked, still looking at Emily. “When friends inquire, we should smile bravely and say everything is well—even tell ourselves it does not really hurt, it will all mend soon, and doubtless it was an accident and no one intended any harm.” His voice had been growing harsher and there was a note of something like an inner panic in it.

“I am not sure I agree,” Emily replied, weighing her answer for something between honesty and tact. “An inordinate fuss helps no one, but I do think that whoever damaged your cello, accident or not, owes you a considerable debt and I can see no reason at all why you should pretend otherwise.”

Victor looked startled.

Thora colored uncomfortably and frowned at her as if she had not totally understood.

“Sometimes accidents are caused by carelessness,” Emily explained. “And regardless of that, we do need to be responsible for what we do. Do you not agree? We cannot expect others to bear the brunt.”

“It is not always so easy …” Thora began, then stopped.

Victor shot Emily a charming smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. I think you have said it exactly. A lack of care, that is it. One must be responsible. Honesty, that is the key to it all.”

“Do you not know who bruised your cello?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I know.”

Thora looked puzzled. “Victor …”

But before he could answer, they were interrupted by a stout woman with remarkably black hair.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Radley, I simply had to say how much I appreciated Mr. Radley’s speech yesterday. He was so very correct about the present situation in Africa. It is years since I listened to anyone with such a grasp of the essentials.” She ignored Victor as if he had been a domestic servant, and apparently did not even realize Thora was part of the group. “We need more men like that in government, as I was just saying to my husband.” She waved an arm airily towards a tall, thin man with a prominent nose. He reminded Emily of pictures she had seen of vultures. He was dressed in military uniform. “Brigadier Gibson-Jones, you know?” The woman seemed to assume that the name would be familiar.

Actually Emily had no recollection of either the brigadier or his wife, and therefore was most grateful to be reminded of their name. She was about to say something suitably agreeable, and to introduce Victor and Thora, but as if suddenly aware of a breach of good manners, Mrs. Gibson-Jones turned to Victor.

“Are you going to play for us? How jolly. I think music always lifts an occasion, don’t you?” And without waiting for an answer, she moved away, having caught sight of someone else with whom she wished to confer.

Emily turned to Victor.

“I’m sorry,” she said in little more than a whisper.

Victor smiled; it was sweet and dazzling, like a broad beam of sunlight. “What does she think I’m going to play—a jig?”

“Can you see her dancing to a jig?” Emily asked almost under her breath.

Victor’s smile became a grin. He seemed at least temporarily to have forgotten the subject of the cello and the bruise.

Emily excused herself to both of them and set about the business of being charming. She moved from group to group, exchanging greetings, inquiries after health, small chatter of fashion, children, the weather, court and society, matters of the usual exchange in civilized conversation. She saw Jack speaking with men of wealth, good family, connections of every sort, both open and discreet. For a moment she wondered again how many of them were members of the Inner Circle, which of them knew who else was, who walked in fear or guilt, who owed dark loyalties, who was prepared to betray. Then she dismissed it from her mind. There was no purpose in it.

“We need change,” she overheard a thin man say, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. “This police force is simply not good enough. Good heavens, when a man of the distinction of Oakley Winthrop can be hacked to death in Hyde Park, we are sinking into anarchy. Complete anarchy.”

“Incompetent officer in charge,” his thickset companion agreed, looping his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, leaving his jacket flapping. “I shall table a question in the House. Something must be done. It is getting so a decent man cannot take a walk after dark. Murmur and whispers everywhere, talk of anarchists, bombs, the Irish, everyone suspicious of his neighbor. Whole world in turmoil.”

“I blame the asylums,” a third man put in vehemently. “What kind of a lunatic is it who can do such things and remain at large? That is what I should like to know. Nobody’s doing a damned thing about it.”

“Have you heard Uttley on the subject?” the first man asked, looking from one to the other of his companions. “He’s right, you know. We need some changes. Although I cannot agree about the lunatic. I rather think it is a purposely sane and very evil man. Mark my words, there is some connection between the victims, whatever anyone says.”

“Really, Ponsonby?” The thickset man looked surprised. “I thought this second feller was a musician? Rather good. Did you know Winthrop? Naval feller, what?”

“Odd chap,” Ponsonby said, pulling a face. “Decent enough family, though. Father’s making a fuss, poor devil. Taken it hard. Can’t blame him.”

“Did you know him?”

“Marlborough Winthrop?”

“No, no, Oakley, man. The son!”

“Met him once or twice. Why? Didn’t care for the chap greatly. Bit overbearing, you know.”

“What, very naval, and all that? Still thinks he’s on the quarterdeck?”

Ponsonby hesitated. “Not really, just had to be the center of things, always talking, always expressing his opinions. Only met him two or three times. Met the brother-in-law, actually. Name of Mitchell, as I recall. Interesting feller. Deep. Been in Africa until very lately, so I believe.”

“Deep? What do you mean deep?”

“Thought a lot more than he said, if you know what I mean. Couldn’t abide his brother-in-law. Gave me some good financial advice, though! Put me onto an excellent man in the city, feller by the name of Carvell. Bought me some very good shares. Done well.”

“Very useful, that—what.”

“What?”

“Useful. Very useful to have a good financial adviser.”

“Oh, yes. Talking about finance, what do you think of …”

Emily moved away, her mind whirling with snatches of words, half ideas, thoughts to report to Charlotte.