Hyde Park Headsman

7

“YES OF COURSE I’ve been reading the newspapers every day,” Micah Drummond said grimly. He was standing by the window in the library of the small house he had bought about six months ago, immediately prior to his marriage, not finding his apartment adequate for his new status. The home he had shared with his first wife, and where his daughters had grown up, he had sold on becoming a widower. His daughters were by then married, and he felt haunted by memories and uncharacteristically lonely.

Now everything was different. He had resigned his position in order to marry Eleanor Byam, a woman touched by tragedy, and unwittingly by scandal. He had loved her deeply enough to consider his resulting retirement from office a trifling price to pay for the constant pleasure of her companionship.

He looked at Pitt with a frown of concern in his long, sensitive face with its grave eyes and ascetic mouth.

“I wish I could think of something helpful to say, but with every new event I become more confused.” He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. “Have you found any connection between Winthrop, Arledge and the poor bus conductor?”

“No. It’s possible Winthrop and Arledge knew each other, or more exactly that Winthrop’s brother-in-law, Mitchell, knew both of them,” Pitt replied, sitting comfortably in the large green chair. “But the bus conductor is a complete mystery. Men like Winthrop don’t take omnibuses. Arledge might have, but I think it’s unlikely.”

Drummond was standing with his back to the fireplace. He looked at Pitt anxiously. “Why? What makes you think Arledge might have used an omnibus? Why would a man of his standing do such a thing?”

“Only a remote possibility,” Pitt replied. “He had a—a lover.”

“A what?” The ghost of a smile touched Drummond’s lips. “You mean a mistress?”

“No.” Pitt sighed. “I don’t. I mean what I said. Not a liaison he could afford to have known. He might have used an omnibus …”

“But you don’t believe it,” Drummond finished for him. “A quarrel?” He searched Pitt’s face curiously, his brows puckered. “You are not satisfied with that?”

Pitt had thought about it deeply, and the easy answer troubled him.

“I might have been, if I had not met the man,” he said slowly. “But he was desolated. Oh I know that doesn’t preclude his having done it himself—people have killed those they loved before and then been destroyed by grief and remorse afterwards. I just don’t believe he is one of those.”

Drummond bit his lip. “I shall be surprised if Farnsworth sees it that way.”

“Oh, he doesn’t,” Pitt agreed with a harsh little laugh. “But so far there is no evidence whatever to connect Carvell with either Winthrop or Yeats, so I can refuse to act for the time being.”

Drummond looked at him closely and Pitt felt increasingly uncomfortable.

“So far there is no real connection between any of them,” Pitt continued. “Only a very tenuous business matter. I cannot believe all this is over money.”

“Nor I,” Drummond admitted. “There is a passion in it, an insanity that springs from something which, thank God, is far less ordinary than greed. But I cannot imagine what.” He hesitated, looking at Pitt.

“Yes?” Pitt prompted.

“Perhaps it is—bizarre …” Drummond said reluctantly, then stopped again.

Pitt did not interrupt again, knowing he would continue. He could see the struggle in his face, the attempt to find the words for the thought that previously troubled him profoundly.

“Could it be something to do with the Inner Circle?” Drummond at him narrowly. “I know the bus conductor is unlikely, but not impossible.”

“A betrayal?” Pitt said with surprise. “You mean some sort of internal punishment? Isn’t it a bit …”

“Extreme?” Drummond finished for him. “Perhaps. But sometimes, Pitt, I don’t think you understand just how powerful they are—and certainly not how ruthless.”

“A kind of execution?” Pitt was still doubtful. He thought Drummond was letting his own entanglement crowd his vision out of proportion. “Isn’t it more in their line simply to ruin someone, have them blackballed from all the clubs, cancel their credit, call in all the debts and loans? That is extremely effective. Men have shot themselves over less.”

“Yes, I know,” Drummond said grimly. “Some men. But Winthrop was in the navy. Perhaps they couldn’t reach him.”

Pitt knew his disbelief was in his face and he could not conceal it.

“Listen to me, Pitt.” Drummond took a step forward, his expression tense, his eyes bleak. “I know a great deal more than you do about the Circle. You only know the lower rings, the men like me who were drawn in without realizing anything beyond the charities everyone can see, and a little of the superficial obligations. They are just the knights of the Green.”

Drummond blushed very faintly, but he was far too serious to allow embarrassment to tie his tongue. “That is what I was, a knight of the Green, someone bound but, in any real sense, untried. Next are the knights of the Scarlet. They are the ones who have proved themselves: blooded, if you like, committed beyond retreat. Beyond them are the Lords of the Silver. They have the power of punishment and reward. But Pitt, behind them is one man, the Lord of the Purple.” He saw Pitt’s face. “All right!” he said with a sudden edge of anger to his voice Pitt had never heard before. “You can smile. It has its absurdity. But there is nothing even faintly ridiculous about the power that man holds. It’s secret, and for those in the Circle it’s total. If he pronounced sentence of ruin, or death, it would be carried out. And believe me, Pitt, the perpetrators would go to the gallows without betraying him.”

In this gracious room with its Georgian simplicity, its simple warmth and familiar touches, such talk should have been no more than a fanciful and rather ghoulish entertainment. But looking at Drummond’s face, the tight muscles of his body, the horror in his eyes, it woke an answering fear in Pitt, and suddenly he felt chilled inside. The warmth no longer touched him.

Drummond saw that he had at last conveyed what he meant.

“It might not be,” he said quietly. “It might have nothing to do with the Circle at all. But remember what I say, Pitt Whoever he is, you have already crossed him once, when you exposed Lord Byam and Lord Anstiss. He won’t have forgotten. Walk carefully, and make friends as well as enemies.”

Pitt knew better than to wonder if Drummond were suggesting he retreat. It was not in his nature even to think of such a thing. He had sometimes thought Drummond stiff, a product of his army career and his aristocratic upbringing, even lacking in information and grasp of which poverty or despair might be. He had wondered if he were capable of real laughter or of consuming passion. But never for an instant had he doubted his courage or his honor. He was the sort of shy, sometimes inarticulate, painfully polite, easily embarrassed, elegant, dryly humorous sort of Englishman who will face impossible odds without complaint and die at his post, but never, ever, desert it even if he were the last man living.

“Thank you for your warning,” Pitt said soberly. “I shall not dismiss the possibility, even though in this case, I think it is unlikely.”

Drummond relaxed very slowly. He was about to speak on some other subject when there was a tap on the door and both men turned.

“Yes?” Drummond answered.

The door opened and Eleanor Drurnmond came in. Pitt had not seen her since the day of her marriage, which he and Charlotte had attended. She looked quite different. The happiness was deeper and calmer in her, as if at last she believed it and did not feel the compulsion to clasp it to her in case it vanished. She was dressed in deep, soft blue and it flattered her dark hair with its touches of gray, and her olive skin and clear gray eyes. There was a repose in her face which Pitt found immensely pleasing.

He rose to his feet.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Drummond. Forgive me taking up your time, but I was looking for a little counsel—”

“Of course, Mr. Pitt,” she said quickly, coming into the room and smiling first at Drummond, then at Pitt. “It is too long since we have seen you. I am sorry it is this wretched business in Hyde Park which has brought you. It is that—isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is.” He felt guilty, and yet he would never have called upon them socially. Drummond had been his superior, only in a certain sense a friend.

“Then perhaps you and Mrs. Pitt will come to dine when this is over?” she asked. “And we can discuss pleasanter things.” She smiled suddenly with brimming pleasure. “I am so glad you are superintendent now, and this has nothing to do with Micah. It must be totally wretched. I was sorry to hear about Aidan Arledge. He was a charming man. Captain Winthrop I cannot grieve over as much as perhaps I should.”

“Did you know him?” he asked in surprise.

“Oh no,” she denied quickly. “Not really. But society is very small. I am acquainted with Lord and Lady Winthrop, of course, but I could not really say I knew them.” She looked at him apologetically. “They are not the sort of people it is easy to form any relationship with, but the most superficial, a matter of pleasantries when one meets them at the same sort of function year after year. They are very—predictable, very correct. I am sure there must be more that is individual, if one—” She stopped. They both knew what she was going to say, and it was pointless to pursue it.

“And the captain?” he asked.

“I met him once or twice.” She shook her head a little. “He was the sort of man who always made me feel condescended to, I am not sure why. Perhaps because there are no women in the navy. I rather formed the opinion all civilians were in his view a lesser species. He was perfectly polite.” She searched Pitt’s face. “But the sort of politeness one keeps for the inferior, if you understand me?”

“Do you think he might have known Arledge?” Pitt asked.

“No,” she said immediately. “I cannot think of two men less likely to have found each other agreeable.”

Drummond glanced at Pitt, his eyes dark.

Pitt smiled back at him. He understood the warning. He had no intention of discussing Arledge’s love affair in front of Eleanor, least of all its nature.

Eleanor moved over to Drummond, and a trifle selfconsciously he put his arm around her. The freedom to do so was still new to him, and acutely pleasurable.

“I wish I could be of assistance, Pitt,” he said seriously. “But it may well be the work of a madman, and to find him you will have to learn what it is these men had in common.” He looked steadily at Pitt and their previous conversation about the Inner Circle hung unspoken in the air between them. “It seems exceedingly unlikely it is an acquaintance with each other,” he continued. “But there may be someone they all knew. I assume you have thought of blackmail?” His arm tightened around Eleanor.

“I thought Yeats might have known something,” Pitt replied, equally carefully. “But how?”

“Does his omnibus route go past the park?” Drummond asked. “He does a late run, or he would not have been getting off at Shepherd’s Bush in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, but he does not go past Hyde Park,” Pitt replied. “Tellman checked that.”

Drummond pulled a face. “How are you getting on with Tellman?”

Pitt had already decided to keep his own counsel. “He’s quick,” he replied. “And diligent. He doesn’t want to arrest Carvell either.”

Eleanor looked from one to the other of them, but she did not interrupt.

Drummond smiled. “He wouldn’t,” he agreed. “If there’s anything Tellman cannot bear, it is to arrest someone and then have to let him go. He’ll want evidence to hang him before he’ll commit himself. He’s a hard enemy, Pitt, but he’s a good friend.”

“I’m sure,” Pitt agreed equivocally.

“He’s also a natural leader,” Drummond went on, his eyes careful on Pitt’s face, his expression both apologetic and amused. “The other men will follow him, if you allow it.”

“Yes I know,” Pitt said dryly, thinking of le Grange.

Drummond’s smile widened, but he said nothing.

“May I offer you something, Mr. Pitt?” Eleanor asked. “It is too early for luncheon, but at least a glass of wine? Or lemonade, if you prefer?”

“Lemonade, thank you,” Pitt accepted gratefully. He had already made up his mind where his next visit would be, and anything to delay it, to fortify him a little, would be more than welcome. “I should enjoy it.”

When he left half an hour later he took a hansom over the river south across the Lambeth Bridge, past Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury had his official residence, and up the Lambeth Road to the huge, forbidding mass of the Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum, more usually known as Bedlam. He had been there before, more than once, and it brought back memories of fear, confusion and wrenching pity.

He alighted from the hansom, paid the driver and approached the main gates. He was greeted with caution, and only after showing his identification did he obtain entrance. He had to wait over a quarter of an hour in a dim office crowded with dark leather-bound books and smelling of dust and closed air before finally the superintendent sent for him and he was conducted to his rooms.

He was a short man with round eyes and muttonchop whiskers. A few strands of grayish hair covered the top of his head. He looked distinctly displeased.

“I have already informed your junior, Superintendent Pitt, that we have had no one escape from here,” he said stiffly without rising from his leather chair. “It does not happen. We have the most excellent system, and even if anyone did leave without permission, it would be known instantly. And if they were of a dangerous nature, it would naturally have been reported immediately to the proper authorities. I don’t know what else I can say to you. My efforts so far appear to have been a waste of time.” His nostrils pinched and his right hand rested on the large pile of papers on the desk beside him, presumably unattended to and waiting his perusal.

With difficulty Pitt reminded himself why he was here. To answer the man equally brusquely would defeat his purpose.

“I do not doubt you, Dr. Melchett,” he replied. “It is your advice I am here for.”

“Indeed?” Melchett said skeptically, at last waving to the other chair for Pitt to sit down. “Well that is not the impression your inspector left. Far from it. He implied very strongly that our methods here were lax and that either some dangerous lunatic had escaped, or else we had released someone who should have been kept here, and in shackles.”

“He has a rough tongue,” Pitt admitted, without the regret that perhaps he should have felt. He accepted the seat. “It was an obvious question to ask,” he went on. “Someone insane enough to cut off three people’s heads might well have passed through here at some time.”

Melchett rose to his feet, his cheeks pink.

“If he was deranged enough to decapitate three total strangers, Pitt, he would not have passed through here!” he said furiously. “I assure you, he would have remained! Just come with me.” He marched around the desk. “I should have taken that damn fool man of yours, but I seriously doubt he would have the wits to apprehend what he saw anyway. Just come along and look at it.” He went to the door and flung it open, leaving it swinging back on its hinges, and strode along the corridor, assuming that Pitt was behind him.

Pitt hated the place. He had hoped he would never be here again. Now he was following a deeply offended Melchett along these corridors with their long silences and sudden screams, the moaning and the sobs, the wild laughter, and then the silence again.

Melchett was far ahead. Pitt had to hurry to catch up with him. It even occurred to him not to, to turn around and go back out. But he did not. His feet increased their pace and Melchett was waiting for him at the door, holding it open.

“There!” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes round and angry.

Pitt walked past him into the long high-ceilinged room. Around the walls was a kind of narrow walkway slightly three feet above the floor, creating the impression of a wall full of people, most of them sitting on chairs or on the floor, many huddled over, hugging themselves, some rocking back and forth rhythmically, moaning and muttering unintelligibly, and it was along this that Melchett now led Pitt. Between them a man with matted hair picked at a scab on his leg till it bled. His arms were covered with similar wounds, some half healed, others obviously new. There were what looked like bite marks on his wrists and forearms. He did not even see Pitt standing close above him, so intent was he upon his own flesh.

A second stared into space, saliva running down his chin. A third reached up towards them, hands clasping at the air, throat straining, mind seeking words and failing to find them. A fourth sat with his wrists in leather-padded chains, banging against the restraint with sharp, jiggling movements as if he were sawing at something. He too was so absorbed in his pointless, painful task that he neither saw Pitt nor heard Melchett when he spoke.

“How many do you want to see?” Melchett asked quietly, his voice hard with a mixture of anger and offense. “We have scores, all much like this, all sad, unreachable by anything we know how to do. Do you think someone like this is your lunatic? Do you think we accidentally let one go, and he got hold of an ax and started decapitating people in Hyde Park?”

Pitt opened his mouth to deny it, but Melchett rushed on, his anger if anything increasing.

“Where are they, Pitt?” he demanded. “Living in the park somewhere? Where do they sleep? What do they eat? All your police swarming over the area, searching for clues, cannot find the poor devil?”

There was no answer. Looking at the fierce, pathetic, troubled souls all around him, beyond reason, beyond reach, the idea was ridiculous. If Tellman had come this far into Bedlam, he would have curbed his tongue before making such comments to Melchett, or anyone else.

Pitt’s silence seemed to soften Melchett a fraction. He cleared his throat.

“Hm—if your man is insane, Pitt, his obsession has not reached the stage where he would be committed to a place like this. He’ll appear much like anyone else most of the time—that is if he is mad at all.” He lifted his shoulders and straightened them again. “Are you certain there is no sane reason for all this carnage?”

“No I’m not,” Pitt replied. “But there seems to be no connection between the victims, not one that we can find so far.” He turned away from the poor creature nearest him, who was reaching up to the full extent of his restraining jacket as if to pluck at him.

Melchett saw he had more than made his point. He turned and led the way out of the great room into the corridor and back down in the direction of his office.

“If he were mad,” Pitt went on, “what sort of an obsession would I be looking for, Dr. Melchett? What sort of a past makes a man turn to such random violence?”

“Oh, it is not random,” Melchett said immediately. “Not in his mind. There will be a connection: time, place, appearance, something said or done which prompted the rage, or the fear, or whatever emotion drives him. It may be a religious passion of some sort. Many lunatics have a profound sense of sin.” He raised his shoulders again and let them fall. “Nasty question, I know, but is it possible your men were all committing some act he might have felt to be sinful? Soliciting women, for example? It’s not an uncommon form of delusion—that sexual congress with women is evil, debilitating, a snare of the devil.” He sniffed. “Sick, of course. Springs from some dark recesses of the mind we have barely begun to realize is there, let alone what may be in it. Lot of most interesting work being done abroad, you know? No—why should you …” He shook his head and increased his pace a trifle.

Pitt did not attempt to press him further until they were back in his office and the door closed, surrounded by books and papers and the paraphernalia of administration. It looked impersonal, sanitized from the confusion and despair he had just seen, and which still clung to him, thick in his throat like a taste he could not get rid of.

“What sort of a man am I looking for, Dr. Melchett, if it is that kind of obsession?” he asked finally. “What sort of character? What manner of family? What past will he have that has driven him to this?” He stared at Melchett. “What event will have provoked him to do this now, not before, not after?”

Melchett hunched his shoulders again in his odd, characteristic gesture.

“God knows. It could be anything from a real tragedy, such as a death in the family, right down to something as trivial as an insult. It could spring from memory. Someone said or did something that reminded him violently of a past shock, and he was disconnected, so to speak, from reality.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sorry, there is really little use in my speculating. I should think some sort of moral or religious passion is your best line. When I asked if your victims could have been soliciting women you did not reply. Were you being discreet?”

“Possibly,” Pitt conceded. “But it wouldn’t be the answer. One of them at least had a long-standing relationship with a lover.”

“You mean a mistress,” Melchett corrected. “That doesn’t prevent him from—”

“No—I mean what I said,” Pitt reasserted.

Melchett’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh. Oh I see. Yes, well that would make it excessively unlikely he was soliciting a woman. What about the others? Same thing?”

“No reason to think so. But I suppose that could set off the same sort of violent reactions.” Pitt was dubious and it must have shown in his face.

“Could have been anything,” Melchett said with a sharp little laugh. “Something they said, something they did, a trick or gesture, something they wore, a place, anything at all. I would look seriously into the possibility that your man is as sane as most and has a perfectly understandable reason. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He held out his hand.

It was dismissal, and there was nothing Pitt could usefully do but accept it. It was pointless to go on pressing for information neither Melchett nor anyone else could give him.

“Thank you,” he said, stepping back a pace. “Thank you for your time.”

Melchett smiled, drawing his lips tightly over his teeth. He acknowledged the courtesy, and showed Pitt to the door.

Pitt was hardly back in Bow Street when Farnsworth came in, stared at the desk sergeant, who snapped to attention, then at Pitt, and then at Tellman and le Grange, who were standing just beyond him.

“Find something,” he said eagerly, looking from one to another.

Le Grange shifted his feet and looked away. It was not his responsibility to answer.

The desk sergeant blushed.

“The superintendent is just back from Bedlam,” Tellman said sourly.

Farnsworth’s face darkened. “For Heaven’s sake what for?” He turned back to Pitt irritably. “If this dammed lunatic was safely locked up in the asylum, we shouldn’t be having all this mayhem!” He swiveled to Tellman. “Didn’t you already go there to make sure they hadn’t had an escape?”

“It was the first thing I did, sir,” Tellman replied.

“Pitt?” Farnsworth’s voice was rising with anger and there was a sharp note of anxiety in it.

“I wanted to see if Dr. Melchett could tell me what sort of a man we are looking for,” Pitt replied, biting his lip to keep from losing his own temper.

“It’s damned simple what we’re looking for!” Farnsworth said tartly, beginning to move towards the hall and the stairs up to Pitt’s office. “Jerome Carvell! The man has motive, can’t account for his whereabouts, and we’ll find the weapon sooner or later. What else do you need?”

“A reason for him to have killed Winthrop and the omnibus conductor,” Pitt replied between his teeth. “There’s no connection so far to suggest he even met either of them, let alone had any cause to hate or fear them.”

“If he killed Arledge, of course he killed the other two.” Famsworth stared at him. “We don’t need to prove it. Perhaps he made some wretched advance to Winthrop and was rebuffed. Winthrop may even have threatened to make it public. That would be enough to send the fellow off his head.” His voice gained in conviction. “Had to kill him to keep him quiet. Sodomy is not only a crime, man, it’s social ruin.” He snorted very slightly through his nose and looked at Tellman.

Tellman’s lantern face was sardonic. He looked at Pitt with a smile, and for the first time Pitt could recall, there was no animosity in it at all. On the contrary, it was faintly conspiratorial.

“Well?” Farnsworth demanded.

“I don’t think so, sir,” Tellman replied, standing to attention.

“Don’t you, indeed!” Farnsworth turned back at Pitt. “And why not? I assume you have a reason, some evidence you have not yet shared?”

Pitt concealed a smile with difficulty. There was nothing remotely amusing in the situation. It added to the tragedy that it should also be absurd.

“Place,” he said simply.

“What?”

“If Winthrop was disinclined, why would he be in a pleasure boat on the Serpentine at midnight? And would Carvell really bring along an ax on the off chance he was rebuffed?”

Farnsworth’s face flamed. “What in God’s name was anybody doing on the Serpentine with an ax?” he said furiously. “You cannot explain that for anyone at all. In fact you haven’t answered very much, have you? I assume you read the newspapers? Have you seen what this damned fellow Uttley is saying about you in particular, and by extension about all of us?” His voice was rising and there was a thread of panic in it now. “I resent it, Pitt! I resent it deeply, and I am not alone. Every policeman in London is being tarred by the same brush as you, and blamed for your incompetence. What’s happened to you, Pitt? You used to be a damned good policeman.” He abandoned his decision to go upstairs to the privacy of Pitt’s office. He was aware of le Grange and the desk sergeant listening to his own humiliation, and now Bailey as well was standing on the edge of the group. He would retaliate equally in public. “There’s enough evidence. For Heaven’s sake use it! Before the bloody madman kills again.” He stared at Pitt. “I shall hold you responsible if you don’t arrest him and we have another murder.”

There was a moment’s bristling silence. Farnsworth stood defiantly, unwilling to withdraw a word. Le Grange looked acutely unhappy, but for once there was no indecision in him. The accusation was unfair, and he backed Pitt.

“We can’t arrest him, sir,” Tellman said distinctly. “He’d have us for false charges, because there’s no proof. We’d have to let him go again straightaway, and we’d only look even stupider.”

“That would be hard,” Farnsworth said grimly. “What about this omnibus conductor? What do you know about him? Any criminal record? Does he owe money? Gamble? Drink? Fornicate? Keep bad company?”

“No criminal record,” Tellman replied. “As far as anyone in the neighborhood knows, he is a perfectly ordinary, respectable, rather self-important little omnibus conductor.”

“What’s an omnibus conductor got to be important about?” Farnsworth asked derisively.

“Touch of authority, I suppose,” Tellman replied. “Tell people whether they can get on or not, where they can sit or if they have to stand.”

Farnsworth rolled his eyes and his face expressed his contempt.

“Indeed. No secret vices?”

“If he had, they are still secret,” Tellman replied.

“Well, there was something! What does the local station say?”

“Nothing known. He was a regular churchgoer, sidesman, or something of the sort.” Tellman pulled a lugubrious face, bitter humor in his eyes. “Obviously liked telling people where to sit,” he finished. “Had to do it on Sundays as well.”

Farnsworth looked at him. “Nobody’s going to cut his head off just because he’s an officious little swine,” he said, then moved back towards the door out again. “I must do something about this Uttley chap.” He looked at Pitt, dropping his voice. “You should have listened to me, Pitt. I made you a good offer, and if you had taken my advice you wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”

Tellman looked from Farnsworth to Pitt and back again; he had only caught half of what had been said, and obviously did not comprehend the meaning. Bailey was still as amused as he dared to be at the vision of Winthrop and Carvell in the boat, the oars and the ax between them. He disliked Farnsworth and always had done. Le Grange was waiting for orders from someone and moved from one foot to the other in uncertainty.

Pitt knew precisely what Farnsworth was referring to. It was the Inner Circle again, this time torn in its loyalties. Micah Drummond’s words came back to his mind with added chill. But surely Farnsworth knew Uttley was a member himself? And Jack was not?

Or perhaps with all the secrecy, the different levels and rings, he did not? And even if he attacked, and drew on those loyal to him, perhaps he could not predict the outcome of such a test of strength. And far more dangerous, the trial of loyalty, the blooded knights against the tyros. Who else was bought by covenant, committed to a battle in which they had no interest and no gain but would be punished mortally if they backed the losing side?

Farnsworth was waiting, as if he thought even at this point Pitt might have changed his mind.

Pitt faced him blankly. “Perhaps not,” he said pleasantly, but with finality in his voice.

Farnsworth hesitated only a moment longer, then swung around and went out.

Bailey let his breath out in a sigh and le Grange relaxed visibly.

Tellman turned to Pitt.

“We can’t arrest Carvell yet, sir, but if we pushed a little harder we would get a damned sight more out of him. As Mr. Farnsworth says, there’s a connection somewhere, and I’ll swear he knows what it is, or he can guess.”

Le Grange looked attentive.

“What have you in mind?” Pitt asked very slowly.

Tellman’s chin came up. “He’s guilty of one crime, by his own admission. You can get several years for sodomy. He may not realize we can’t prove it. We can pursue him on that.” His lip curled very slightly in unspoken contempt. “Mr. Carvell isn’t the sort to take well to a term in somewhere like Pentonville or the Coldbath Fields.”

“That’s right, sir,” le Grange said hopefully.

Pitt ignored him. He looked at Tellman with dislike.

“You have no evidence.”

“He admitted it,” Tellman said reasonably.

“Not to you, Inspector.”

Tellman’s face hardened and he stood facing Pitt squarely. “Are you saying you would deny it, sir?”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “I should say nothing at all, Inspector. All he told me was that he loved Arledge. That may be interpreted as you please. The emotion is not a crime. I imagine Carvell will say precisely that, and have his lawyers sue you for harassment.”

“You’re too squeamish,” Tellman said, disgust written large in his face. “If you pander to these people you’ll never learn anything. They’ll run rings ’round you.”

Bailey coughed loudly.

Tellman ignored him, still staring at Pitt. “We can’t afford your delicate conscience if we want to catch this bastard who’s cutting people’s heads off and terrifying half of London. People daren’t go out after dark unless they’re in twos or threes. There are cartoons all over the place. He’s making a laughingstock of us. Doesn’t that bother you?” He looked at Pitt with something close to loathing. “Doesn’t it make you angry?”

Le Grange nodded his head up and down, his eyes on Tellman.

“That’s just what it sounds like,” Pitt replied coldly. “The reaction of anger—not of thought or judgment: the instinctive lashing out of someone who’s afraid for his own reputation and works with one eye over his shoulder to see what others think of him.”

“The ‘others’ pay our bloody wages!” Tellman said, still staring icily and undeviatingly at Pitt. Neither Bailey nor le Grange interested him in the slightest, and the desk sergeant had faded from his awareness completely. “Yours as much as mine,” he went on. He had committed himself too far to turn back. “And they are not pleased with you.” His voice was rising. “Nobody cares how brilliant you may have been in the past—it’s now that matters. You are leaving their lordships’ reputations in tatters. They look like fools, and they won’t forgive you for that.”

“If you want me to arrest Carvell, prove he had something to do with it,” Pitt demanded, his own voice angry and hard. “Where was he when Yeats was killed?”

“At a concert, sir,” le Grange chipped in. “But he can’t find anyone who saw him there. He can tell us what the music was, but anyone could get that from a program.”

“And when Arledge was killed?” Pitt went on.

“Home alone.”

“Servants?”

“No point. There’s a French door in the study. He could have gone out that way and none of the servants would have known. Come back the same way.”

“And Winthrop?”

“For a walk in the park, so he says,” Tellman replied with heavy disbelief.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Pass anyone?”

“Not that he can recall. Anyway, he’d have to pass pretty close for anyone to recognize him at midnight. People don’t hang around the park at night these days—not as they used to.”

“Not even the women?” Pitt asked.

Tellman shrugged. “They’ve got to, poor cows. Can’t afford to stay in. But they’re scared.”

“Well go and see if you can find anyone who saw Carvell,” Pitt said. “Try some of the women. What about in the street on the way home? Someone might be able to place him at a particular time. Don’t his servants remember his coming home?”

“No sir. He kept rather odd hours, and preferred the servants to go to bed and leave him to it.” Tellman’s lips lifted in a faint sneer of distaste. “Presumably he preferred they did not see Arledge coming and going. Caught him out last time—if he was really there.”

“Try the other people in the park,” Pitt repeated. “Try Fat George’s girls. They work that end.”

“What’d that prove?” Tellman said with open disgust. “If no one saw him, that doesn’t prove he wasn’t there. And we can’t find anyone who will say they saw him in Shepherd’s Bush. Tried all the passengers on that last bus.”

“And I suppose you haven’t yet found where Arledge was killed either?” Pitt asked sardonically. “Seems you have quite a lot to do. You’d better get on with it.”

And with that he went up to his office and closed the door, but Tellman’s charges lingered with him. Was he being too fastidious in his prosecution of this case? Was he allowing the fact that he liked Carvell to influence his judgment as to the weight of the evidence? Pity, no matter how real, was not a factor he should allow to blind him. If it were not Carvell, then who? Bart Mitchell, over Winthrop’s abuse of his sister? But why kill Arledge? And why Yeats?

Or was it really some obsessed lunatic who killed seemingly at random from the dark chaos in his own mind?

He must learn more about Winthrop, and his marriage, and Bart Mitchell.

Emily looked at Charlotte’s new house with growing approval. There was something acutely satisfying about finding a house in a dilapidated state, then repairing it and decorating it to suit your own tastes. When she had married George she had moved into Ashworth House and found it in perfect order, everything maintained as it had been for generations. Every room had been added to by each succeeding chatelaine until by 1882 there had been little room for improvement or individual expression in any part of it. Even her own bedroom was curtained and mirrored in the taste of the previous incumbent, and it would have been wasteful to have altered it. Indeed, it was so lavish and so beautiful it could not have been bettered, it would simply have been Emily’s own choice rather than someone else’s.

Now, of course, Ashworth House was hers, and she shared it with Jack, but it still contained little that was of her creation or taste, even though she could find no fault with any of it. She was delighted for Charlotte, and also just a very little bit envious.

They were in the bedroom which overlooked the garden. Charlotte had chosen green after all, and today with a bright sun and the trees in full leaf, the whole room had the feeling of a shaded bower, full of light and shadow and the soft sound of moving leaves. What it would be like in winter remained to be seen, but at this moment it could hardly have been lovelier.

“I like it,” Emily said decisively. “In fact I think it is quite marvelous.” She screwed up her face unhappily and her hands with their gorgeous rings were knotted in her muslin skirts.

“But …” Charlotte said, feeling a sharp disappointment. She was so happy with the room, it was exactly what she had most hoped for, but it hurt her that Emily should have reservations, and to judge from her expression, very serious ones.

Emily sighed. “But have you seen Mama’s bedroom lately? I called there.” She turned to face Charlotte, her blue eyes very wide. “I had a chance to go upstairs. Have you? It’s—it’s so—I don’t know what to say. It’s just not Mama! It’s as if she were someone totally different. It’s—it’s worse than romantic—it’s lush. Yes, that’s the word, lush.”

“You are still trying to pretend it is a passing thing,” Charlotte said slowly, going to the window and leaning her elbows on it to stare out at the garden. The lawn, now neatly clipped, stretched away under the trees to the rose-covered wall at the end. “It isn’t, you know. I think I have faced that now. She really loves him.”

Emily came beside her, also looking down at the garden in the dappled sunlight. “It will still end in tragedy,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing else it can do.”

“She could marry him.”

Emily turned to face her. “And do what?” she demanded. “She could hardly remain in society, and she would never fit in with the theater people. She would be neither one thing nor another. And how long could it last—happiness, I mean?”

“How long does it ever last?” Charlotte replied.

“Oh come on! I am very happy, and don’t tell me you are not, because I should not believe you.”

“Certainly I am. And look how many people predicated I should end in disaster.”

Emily looked back at the garden. “That is rather different.”

“No it isn’t,” Charlotte argued. “I married someone nearly all my friends said was hopelessly beneath me, and had no money to speak of.”

“But he is your age. Or at least he is only a few years older, which is precisely as it should be. And he is a Christian!”

“I admit that is a difficulty, Joshua’s being a Jew,” Charlotte conceded unhappily. “But Mr. Disraeli was a Jew. That didn’t stop him becoming Prime Minister, and the Queen thought he was wonderful. She liked him very much.”

“Because he flattered her shamelessly, and Mr. Gladstone wouldn’t,” Emily responded. “He was a miserable old man, always talking about virtue.” Her face lightened. “Although I did hear he was actually very fond of women himself—very fond indeed. In fact I heard it from Eliza Harrogate.” Her voice dropped to little above a whisper. “She said she knew for a fact that he could hardly contain himself when in the presence of a pretty woman, whatever her age or state. That makes him seem a little different, doesn’t it?”

Charlotte stared at her, uncertain if she were serious or joking. Then she burst into laughter. The thought was delicious, and completely novel.

“Perhaps he made an intimate suggestion to the Queen?” Emily went on, beginning to giggle as well. “Maybe that is why she didn’t care for him?”

“You are talking the most arrant rubbish,” Charlotte said at last. “And it has nothing at all to do with what we were discussing.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Emily was suddenly solemn again. “What can we do about it? I refuse simply to stand by and watch Mama walk straight into a disaster.”

“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Charlotte said grimly. “The only thing we can hope for is that it should come to a natural end before irreparable harm has been done.”

“That’s hopeless. We can’t be so—so ineffectual,” Emily protested, turning away from the window again.

“It’s not ineffectual; it’s a matter of not interfering, and robbing Mama of the right to choose for herself.” Charlotte turned away as well.

“But—” Emily began.

“How is the election progressing?” Charlotte cut across her deliberately, a smile on her face.

Emily shrugged. “All right, for the moment I give up. Actually, it’s going surprisingly well.” Her delicate eyebrows rose, her eyes wide. “There have been a few extremely good articles in the newspapers in the last two days. I don’t understand it, but someone has obviously changed their views and is now entirely for Jack; or to be more exact, against Mr. Uttley.”

“How odd,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “There must be some reason for it.”

“Well Jack has not joined the Inner Circle, if that’s what you are thinking,” Emily said fiercely. “I will swear to that.”

“Of course not, I had not doubted it,” Charlotte said soothingly. “But it does not mean that this change has nothing to do with the Inner Circle. They may have their own reasons.”

“Why? Jack won’t give them anything.”

“That is not what I meant.” Charlotte drew a deep breath. “Uttley has been attacking the police. Do you not think it is possible that there are those in the police who are high in the Inner Circle too, and Uttley was foolish enough not to realize it?”

“Oh! Like the assistant commissioner, perhaps?” Emily looked startled and, just for a moment, disbelieving.

“Micah Drummond was,” Charlotte reminded her.

“Yes, but that was different. He didn’t use it.” Emily stopped suddenly. “Yes I see. That was silly. It doesn’t mean Giles Farnsworth wouldn’t. He will call on the right people in order to defend himself. Of course he would.”

“Quite apart from that,” Charlotte went on, “we don’t know who else is.”

“What do you mean?” Emily demanded. “Who are you thinking of?”

“Anyone,” Charlotte replied. “The Home Secretary, for all we know. That’s the whole thing about the Inner Circle, we don’t know. We don’t know whose loyalties are where. There can be alliances you never even imagined.”

Emily looked at her, now very grave. “So Uttley may have defeated himself by attacking the police? Wouldn’t he have known the dangers of that?”

“Not if he didn’t know Farnsworth was a member, assuming it is Farnsworth. And if they were in different rings. But it was stupid of him not to have considered the possibility.”

Emily frowned. “He must have thought he was safe. Charlotte—could there be a—rivalry within the Circle? Do such things happen?”

“I suppose so. Or perhaps it is so secret Uttley really did not know,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “According to Micah Drummond, he knew only a few other members, those of his own ring. It’s a sort of protection. Only the senior members know all the other names. Then no one who becomes disaffected can betray the others.”

“Then how do they know who is and who isn’t?” Emily asked reasonably.

“I think they have signs,” Charlotte replied. “Secret ways to recognize each other if they have to.”

“How incredibly silly,” Emily said with a smile. Then suddenly she shivered. “I hate things like that. Imagine the power those at the heart must have. They have all that blind loyalty—hundreds, maybe thousands, of men in positions of authority all over the country, all promised to give their allegiance without question, often without knowing to whom or even in what cause.”

“They can go for years without being asked to do anything,” Charlotte pointed out. “I expect most of them never are. When Micah Drummond joined he thought it was only a nice, anonymous, benevolent society, giving time and money in charitable causes. It wasn’t until the murder in Clerkenwell, when he was asked to help Lord Byam, that he began to understand just what the price was, or to wonder how much of his own preferment had come because of his membership. Maybe Uttley was the same.”

“Innocent?” Emily said doubtfully. “I can believe it of Micah Drummond. He really is rather … naive. Men trust people no woman in her right mind would dream of trusting with a thing. But Uttley is devious himself, and brilliantly ambitious. People who use others expect them to try the same.” Then as she considered the idea it became more and more likely in her mind. “Not a very pleasant man, ready enough to grasp at any advantage, but without understanding what a vast and dangerous thing he was playing with?” She shivered again, in spite of the sun that danced on the sill. “I could almost feel sorry for him—but not quite.”

“I would save your pity until the end,” Charlotte warned.

Emily looked at her. “Are you afraid?”

“Only a little. I wish I thought they were protecting the police for some honorable reason, but I think it is because someone higher in the Circle than Uttley is on the force—maybe the assistant commissioner, but it could be anyone.”

Emily sighed. “And I suppose Thomas is no nearer to finding the Hyde Park Headsman?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“And we are not doing very much, are we?” Emily said critically. “I wish I could think of something!”

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Charlotte was growing more despondent. “It isn’t as if we had the faintest idea who it could be. It isn’t really—” She stopped.

“Very interesting,” Emily finished for her. “Because we don’t know the people. Madness is frightening, and sad, but really not …”

“Interesting.” Charlotte smiled bleakly.

Pitt redoubled his efforts to find some link, however tenuous, between Winthrop and Aidan Arledge. In this endeavor he went again to see Arledge’s widow. She received him with the same charming courtesy as previously, but he was saddened to find her looking weary and anxious. In spite of the shock she must have been suffering when they first met, there had been a bloom in her face. It was gone now, as if the long days and nights had drained her. She was still dressed carefully, her sweeping, feminine black relieved by delicate touches of lace and the same beautiful mourning brooch and ring.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a wan smile. “Have you come to report some further discovery?” She said it without hope in her voice, but her eyes, hollowed with shock, searched his face.

“Nothing that we yet know the meaning of,” he answered. Her distress hurt him far more than Farnsworth’s abuse or the criticism written with such a free hand in the newspapers.

“Nothing at all?” she pressed. “You have no idea who is doing these terrible things?” They were in the withdrawing room, which was still warm and restful, a large bowl of flowers on the table by the far wall.

“We have still found no link to connect your husband with Captain Winthrop,” he replied. “And even less with the bus conductor.”

“Please sit down, Superintendent.” She indicated the chair nearest to him, and sat in another opposite, folding her hands in her lap. It was a graceful pose and she looked almost at ease, but her back was perfectly straight, as she had probably been taught to sit since nursery days. Charlotte had told him how good governesses would pass by and poke a ruler, or some other such sharp, hard instrument, at the bent backs of their less diligent girls.

Pitt accepted and crossed his legs comfortably. In spite of the circumstances, and the errand on which he had come, there was something about her presence which was extraordinarily agreeable, at once sharpening perception and yet leaving him with a sense of well-being. The thoughts and confidences shared last time were like a warm memory between them.

“Is there something else I can tell you?” she inquired, watching his face. “I have been searching my mind for anything at all. You see, the trouble is there is so much of Aidan’s life in which I had no part.” She smiled, and then bit her lip suddenly. “Oh dear. Far more than I meant, even when I said that. What I was thinking of was his music. I am very fond of music, but I could not possibly go every evening there was a concert, and it would have been out of the question to attend all the meetings and rehearsals.” She searched his eyes to see if he understood, and did not find her culpable for such an admission.

“No woman goes to his art or profession with her husband, Mrs. Arledge,” Pitt assured her. “Many women are not even fully aware what business their husbands have, let alone where it is or who else is concerned.”

She relaxed a little. “No, of course you are right,” she said with a smile of gratitude. “Perhaps it was a foolish thing to say. I am sorry. I just find—oh dear—please excuse me, Mr. Pitt, I fear my mind is all at sixes and sevens. The Requiem is weighing very heavily with me. It is in two days’ time, and I still hardly know what to do.”

Pitt wished he could help, but the police would be inappropriate even as a presence, let alone assisting.

“Surely he had many friends who would be privileged to help in any way at all?” he asked earnestly.

“Oh yes, yes naturally,” she agreed. “Lady Lismore is being marvelous. She is a pillar of strength. Sir James knows all the people who should be invited. And Mr. Alberd, too. He will deliver an address. He is very well respected, you know?”

“I imagine it will still be a harrowing time for you, though,” he said gently, imagining the grief she would feel, the overwhelming emotion as she heard his beloved music and his friends paying tribute, still blindly ignorant of the terrible secret which might all too soon be in every newspaper and billboard.

She swallowed with difficulty, as if there were an obstruction in her throat. “Yes, I am afraid so. So many thoughts keep whirling through my mind.” She looked at him with sudden candor. “I am ashamed of many of them, Superintendent, and yet no matter how hard I try, I don’t seem to be able to control them.” She rose to her feet and walked over towards the window. She spoke with her back to him. “I am ashamed of myself for my weakness, but I am dreading it. I do not know who the man is whom Aidan—I cannot bring myself to use the word loved—and I shall end in looking at everyone and wondering.” She turned back to face him. “That is very wrong, isn’t it?” She said nothing of the storm of ridicule and contempt which would break when someone was arrested and it became public, but the knowledge was silent between them.

“But very understandable, Mrs. Arledge,” he said softly. “I think we might all of us feel the same.”

“Do you think so?” she asked. The slightest of smiles touched her mouth. Bailey had been right, she had the sort of face that became more pleasing the longer one knew her. “You are most comforting. Will you be present, Mr. Pitt? I should like it very much if you were, as a friend—as my friend, if you feel you are able?”

“Most certainly I shall attend, Mrs. Arledge.” He felt guilty as he said it, and yet deeply complimented. He was obliged by the case to be there. Perhaps she understood that. He thought she was quite capable of asking him simply to make him feel less intrusive, and yet the warmth inside him was not lessened by the knowledge.

“There is to be a small reception afterwards,” she continued. “I shall not hold it here, I really don’t feel able.” She was staring at the flowers on the table. “Sir James suggested we should have it at the home of one of Aidan’s friends who both admired his work and was fond of him. That would be convenient for everyone, and much less distressing for me. I shall not be responsible in the same way, and if I wish to leave earlier, I may do so, and return home to be alone with my thoughts and memories.” A small, rueful smile crossed her face and vanished. “Although I am not sure that is entirely what I wish.”

There was nothing for him to say that was not trite.

“It is to be at the home of Mr. Jerome Carvell, in Green Street,” she continued. “Do you know that?”

For a moment he was robbed of words.

“I am familiar with Green Street,” he replied at last, his breath catching in his throat so that he spoke with difficulty. He hoped profoundly that she saw nothing in his face. “I expect that will be very suitable,” he went on. “And as you say, relieve you of the main responsibility.” Did his answer sound as meaningless as he felt it?

She forced a smile. “They will take care of refreshments, and of course we shall have music at the Requiem itself. They have attended to all of that also.” Absently she rearranged one or two of the flowers, putting one a trifle farther out, handling a leaf here or there, nipping off a stem that was out of place. “Aidan knew so many excellent musicians. There will be many to choose from. He particularly loved the cello. Such a sad instrument. The tones are darker than those of the violin. Appropriate for such an occasion, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” His mind immediately conjured a picture of Victor Garrick playing after Oakley Winthrop’s funeral. “Who will play? Do you know yet?”

She turned away from the flowers.

“Some young man Aidan was fond of, someone I believe he helped and encouraged,” she replied, looking at him with quickened interest. “Do you care for the cello, Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes.” It was more or less true. He enjoyed it profoundly on the rare occasions when he had the opportunity to listen.

“I believe the young man is most gifted. He is an amateur, but has both technique and extraordinary emotion, so Sir James tells me. And he had a regard for Aidan, because of the time Aidan devoted to helping him.”

“Indeed? What is his name?”

“Vincent Garrick. Yes, I think that is right. No—no it was not Vincent—Victor. Yes, I am sure that is right.”

“Did Mr. Arledge know him well?” Pitt kept the sudden sharpness out of his voice as well as he could, but she stiffened. He could see the line of her shoulder taut against the thick silk of her gown.

“Do you know him, Mr. Pitt? Does it mean something?” she demanded. “Why do you ask me?”

“It may mean very little, ma’am. Victor Garrick was Captain Winthrop’s godson.”

“Captain Winthrop’s godson?” She looked confused, and then disappointed. “Perhaps it was absurd, but I was hoping, from your sudden attention, that there was some—some clue?”

“Did Mr. Arledge know Victor Garrick well?” he asked again.

Her eyes did not leave his face.

“I am afraid I have no idea. You could ask Sir James. He would know. He actually encouraged the young musicians rather more than Aidan did. In fact, to be honest, Superintendent, I fear it may have been Sir James’s suggestion because Mr. Garrick is something of a protégé of his.”

“I see.” Pitt was stupidly disappointed. Still he would go again to Sir James Lismore and pursue the connection, no matter how remote. And most certainly he would attend the Requiem. “Thank you, Mrs. Arledge. You have been most patient with me, and most gracious.” It was an understatement. No bereaved person had earned his admiration more.

“You will tell me, Superintendent, when you find something, won’t you?” she said with eagerness lighting her face.

“Of course,” he said quickly. “As soon as there is anything that is more than speculation and idea.” He rose to his feet.

She rose also and walked with him to the hallway and the front entrance, thanking him again. He took his leave and set out to find a hansom immediately and go to the home of Sir James Lismore. But her face was still in his mind’s eye and a confusion of emotions was raised by Aidan Arledge. He pitied him because he had met a violent and untimely death, and because he had loved where he could not fulfill himself, and yet also felt an anger he could not quell for his having betrayed such a remarkable woman and left her with nothing but dignity and grief.

“Victor Garrick?” Sir James said with surprise. He was a very ordinary-looking man of medium height, and his hair receded so far it was barely visible as one faced him. But there was a quality of concentration in his eyes that held the attention, and all the lines in his face spoke of intelligence and good nature.

“A young amateur cellist,” Pitt added.

“Oh yes, I know who you mean,” Lismore said quickly. “Most gifted, extraordinary intensity. But why does he concern you, Superintendent?”

“Was he acquainted with the late Aidan Arledge?”

“Certainly. Poor Aidan knew a great number of musicians, both amateur and professional.” He frowned, looking at Pitt more closely. “Surely you cannot suspect one of them of being involved in his death? That is absurd.”

“Not necessarily culpable, Sir James,” Pitt explained. “There are many possibilities of involvement I am trying to find any link whatever between Captain Winthrop and Mr. Arledge.”

Lismore looked surprised. “I perceive the difference, Superintendent I apologize for leaping to an unjustified conclusion.” He put his hands in his pockets and regarded Pitt with interest “But are you sure that Captain Winthrop was acquainted with Victor Garrick? I believe Captain Winthrop had no fondness whatever for music, and Victor certainly had no desire to have anything to do with the navy. He is a very peaceable, artistic sort of young man, a dreamer, not a man of action. He hates all manner of violence or cruelty, let alone the life of physical discipline and ordered belligerences necessary for life on board a naval vessel”

“It was not a friendship of choice,” Pitt explained, smiling to himself at Lismore’s description of naval life … one with which Victor would have agreed. “A family relationship,” he added.

“They were related?” Lismore was amazed. “I understood Victor’s father was dead and his mother had no extended family, at least none with whom she is in touch.”

“Not related by blood. Captain Winthrop was his godfather.”

“Ah.” Lismore’s face cleared. “Yes, I see. That would be quite different Yes, that makes ample sense.”

“Forgive me, Sir James, but you speak as if you knew Captain Winthrop?”

“Again I apologize, Superintendent. I have unwittingly misled you. Actually I never met him. It was Mrs. Winthrop I knew—very slightly. A charming lady, and most fond of music.”

“You know Mrs. Winthrop?” Pitt seized on it, uncertain if it had any meaning, but even the tiniest threads were precious, he had so little. “Was she acquainted with Mr. Arledge, do you know?”

Lismore was surprised.

“Oh yes, indeed. Mind, I cannot say whether it was an acquaintance of any duration or depth, or merely a natural affinity in the love of music and a spontaneous kindness on Aidan’s part. He was very gentle, you know, very easily moved to compassion.”

“Compassion? Was Mrs. Winthrop in some kind of distress?”

“Indeed.” Lismore nodded, watching Pitt curiously. “I don’t know what may have been the cause of it, but I recall seeing her on one occasion deeply distressed over something. She was weeping, and Aidan was endeavoring to comfort her. I don’t believe he was entirely successful. She left with a young gentleman, of a somewhat sunburned appearance. I believe he was her brother. He also seemed most disturbed about the event, and quite angry.”

“Her brother. Bartholomew Mitchell?” Pitt asked quickly.

“I regret I don’t recall his name,” Lismore apologized. “Indeed I am not sure if I ever met him. Aidan said something about it afterwards, I think that is how I gained the impression he was her brother. You look concerned, Superintendent. Does that have some meaning for you?”

“I’m not sure,” Pitt said honestly, but he felt his pulse race with excitement in spite of himself. “Is it possible Mr. Arledge and Mrs. Winthrop had a disagreement about something? Or even that Mr. Mitchell could have assumed it was so?”

“Aidan and Mrs. Winthrop?” Lismore looked startled. “I cannot imagine what about.”

“But is it possible?” Pitt insisted.

“I suppose so.” Lismore was reluctant. “At least I suppose it is possible Mr. Mitchell misunderstood the situation. He was angry, as I recall, very angry indeed.”

“Can you remember anything of it at all, Sir James?” Pitt pressed. “A word, a gesture even?”

Lismore looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips.

“Please!” Pitt could barely contain his impatience.

Lismore took a deep breath and chewed his lower lip before speaking.

“I did overhear a few snatches, Superintendent. I dislike intensely repeating what was most certainly an intensely private conversation, but I can see that you believe it may be of importance.”

Pitt was breathless with impatience.

“I heard the man—I shall assume it was the brother—say quite vehemently, ‘It is not your fault!’ He emphasized the negative most fiercely. He went on, ‘I will not have you say so. It is quite absurd and untrue. If Thora is foolish and misguided enough to think so, that is her misfortune, but I will not have it yours. You have done nothing. Do you hear me, nothing, to cause it. You must put it from your mind, totally, and start afresh.’ That may not be his words precisely, Superintendent, but it is extremely close, and it is certainly his sense.” Lismore looked at Pitt expectantly.

Pitt was confused. Was Bart Mitchell referring to Winthrop’s death? And what did Thora Garrick know of this?

“Well?” Lismore asked.

Pitt recalled his attention. “Did you hear the reply?”

“Only in part. She was in some distress, and not entirely coherent.”

“And the part you heard?”

“Oh—she insisted it was her fault, that she had caused whatever it had been by her foolishness, and that he really should not be so angry, it was not an uncommon event, or something of the sort. I am sorry, I really was most uncomfortable to have overheard any of it at all.”

“Did you see Mr. Mitchell with Mr. Arledge?” Pitt persisted. “What was his manner?”

“No—no I did not.” Lismore shook his head. “So far as I can remember, Aidan had left in order to conduct the second half of the performance when I saw Mr. Mitchell take Mrs. Winthrop out towards the door and, I presume, leave the premises. They seemed to have resolved whatever difference it had been by then. Apparently he had persuaded her he was right, and she seemed pleased about it.”

“Thank you. You have been extremely helpful.” Pitt rose to his feet with his mind whirling. “Thank you for your time and your frankness.” He turned towards the door. “Good day, Sir James.”

“Good day, Superintendent,” Lismore said with some confusion, and obvious curiosity.

Emily had enjoyed the party, in spite of its having been an entirely political affair. There were many aspects of the campaign she did not care for in the slightest. Speaking in the streets was sometimes fun, other times more tiring, dispiriting or even dangerous. Helping Jack to write articles and speeches for specific audiences was a chore, and one she entered into only because she was loyal to him and wished him to fight with every possible advantage she could give, even if it were a battle he had little realistic chance of winning.

Although in the last few days that had changed markedly. The signs were quite subtle to begin with, an altered tone from one of the principal columnists in the Times, a questioning of Uttley’s motives for the criticisms he had made of the police, even the suggestion that perhaps Jack Radley’s loyalties were more what was desired at the moment. A question of patriotism was raised.

But this evening had been fun. She had danced and chattered, seemingly artlessly, but in fact with the greatest imaginable art. She had flattered and laughed, been amusing and, once or twice, as fitted the moment, even been astute in her observations, politically wise, to the amazement and delight of several portly and middle-aged men of influence. Altogether the whole event had been a resounding success.

As she and Jack took their leave she was on the crest of a wave, and swept out on his arm to walk the short way home to Ashworth House in the balmy late spring evening. The moon was high like a silver lantern above the trees, and the air smelled of night-scented flowers. The shadows of carriages, lanterns gleaming, clattered past them and left them in the darkness between the lampposts almost as if the gentleness of the night were wrapped around them.

Jack was singing under his breath and walking with a very slight swagger. It was not the result of too much indulgence, simply elation and a tremendous sense of well-being.

Emily found herself smiling widely and humming along with him.

They turned the corner from the broad, well-lit avenue into a quieter road, trees overhanging the high garden walls, shadowing the lamps on their slender posts.

Suddenly Jack let out a cry and lurched against her, catching her roughly and knocking her sideways into the gutter before he fell forward onto his hands, only saving himself at the last moment from injuring his face as he struck the pavement.

Emily let out a shriek of alarm and astonishment. Then it changed to real fear. There was a dark figure looming over Jack, his head covered so his face was unrecognizable, and something raised in his hand with an enormous, wedge-shaped blade.

She screamed with all the force of her lungs.

Jack was sprawled on the pavement and the figure towered above him.

Emily had no weapon, nothing at all with which to defend Jack or herself; not that she even thought of herself.

The figure raised his arms high in the air.

Jack rolled over onto his back and shot out his legs, kicking hard. One foot caught the assailant on the shin just above the ankle, sending him off balance. He staggered backwards.

Emily screamed again and again. For God’s sake, somebody must hear!

The assailant was regaining himself, starting forward.

Jack was still not on his feet.

The assailant lifted the great blade.

Jack launched himself from his hands and knees and charged, catching the assailant in the solar plexus with his head. The man gasped, choked, and went backwards into the wall, hitting it hard with his shoulders. There was a clatter as the weapon fell to the ground.

Jack clambered shakily to his feet.

Farther along the pavement someone else was coming, calling out, footsteps loud on the stones.

The assailant turned and fled, limping raggedly, but with a startling speed, until he was around the corner and swallowed up in the darkness.

An elderly gentleman in a dressing robe came running up the pavement, his white nightshirt showing beneath his skirts.

“Oh dear! Oh my goodness!” he gasped. “What on earth …? Madam! Sir—are you injured? Here!” He knelt down beside Jack, where he was again sprawled on the pavement, having overbalanced with the weight of his charge. “Sir! Are you injured? Who was it? Thieves? Have you been robbed?”

“No, no, I don’t think so.” Jack answered both questions at once. Then with the man’s assistance he scrambled up again and turned immediately to Emily.

“Ma’am?” the man said urgently. “Are you hurt? Did he …?”

“No—no. I am unhurt,” Emily said hastily. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, sir, and at such inconvenience. I fear if you had not—”

“We should indeed have been robbed,” Jack interrupted.

Another man came running up and stopped abruptly.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who’s hurt? Are you all right, ma’am? Were these men …” He looked at Jack, then at his helper. “Oh—are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Emily assured him breathlessly. “My husband was attacked—but he saw the man off, and with this gentleman’s prompt arrival the assailant fled.”

“Thank God for that. I don’t know what the country is coming to.” The man’s voice was choked with emotion. “There is evidence everywhere. Would you like to come to my house? It is a mere hundred yards, and my staff would be happy to get you some restorative….”

“No thank you,” Jack said a little shakily. “Our own home is not much farther. But it is most civil of you.”

“Are you quite sure? Are you, madam?”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Jack took Emily by the arm. She felt him awkward, his body shaking.

“Yes, thank you,” she agreed quickly. “It was very good of you to come out. You have most certainly saved us from a terrible experience.”

“If you are quite sure …? Well, as you wish, of course. Good night, sir. Good night, ma’am.”

Jack and Emily thanked them again and hurried away, their feet loud on the pavement, eager to escape.

“It wasn’t a robber,” Emily said huskily.

“I know,” Jack replied, his breath catching in his throat “He was trying to kill me!”

“He had an ax,” Emily went on. “Jack—it was the Headsman! It was the Hyde Park Headsman!”