Hyde Park Headsman

9

LADY AMANDA KILBRIDE rode out alone, very early, towards Rotten Row. She had quarreled with her husband the evening before and wished him to rise and find her absent. Of course he would not think she had left in any permanent sense. Such a thing would be out of the question, but he would be worried. He would be anxious in case she had done something foolish, just possibly even fulfilled her promise to run off and have a dramatic love affair with the first presentable man who asked her.

Although in the cold, pale light of morning she was obliged to admit that there were not so many presentable men at all, let alone ones who would invite married ladies to have affairs. The chance that one had come along between her threat, made at about nine o’clock, and the time she had retired and locked her bedroom door, a little before midnight, was very remote indeed.

Still, let him wonder!

She reached the end of the Row and saw its rather gravelly surface stretching out in front of her beneath the trees. A good sharp canter was precisely what she needed. She leaned a little forward and patted her horse, giving it a word of encouragement. Its ears pricked at the change in her tone. All morning so far she had regaled it with the injustices done her. Now she urged it into a trot, and then a canter.

She rode well and she knew it. It added to her enjoyment of the sharp spring sunshine, the long shadows across the Row and the sheen of dew on the park grass beyond. There was hardly anyone else around, even in Knightsbridge, which she could see beyond the edge of the park; there was only an occasional late reveler returning home, or very early risers like herself, enjoying the cold, bare sunlight and the virtual solitude.

At the far end she turned and cantered back towards Hyde Park Corner, feeling the wind in her face and at last beginning to smile.

Three quarters of the way down she slowed to a walk. She knew better than to offer her horse a drink at the trough while it was still warm, but she would dearly like to splash her own face with its coolness. She dismounted, leaving the reins loose, and took a couple of steps to the trough. She bent down absently, her mind still on her husband’s offense, then with her hands in the water she turned her head and looked.

The water was red-brown.

She withdrew sharply with a cry of revulsion. The whole trough was cloudy with some dark fluid, far too dark to be water. There was also something else in it, something large which she could not see because of the murkiness.

“Oh really!” she said angrily. “This is too bad! Who would do such a stupid thing? Now it’s filthy!” She stepped back, and it was only as she stood up that she saw the odd object on the far side of the trough. It was so odd in its appearance that she looked more closely.

For a breathless instant she did not believe it. Then when it sank on her incredulous brain that it was truly what it seemed, she slid with a splash into the trough, face first.

The cold water choked her and in an effort to get her breath she pulled herself up again, gasping and gagging; the whole of the top of her body was soaked, and now thoroughly cold. She was too horrified even to scream, but crouched in silence, half arched over the edge of the trough, shaking violently.

There was a thud of hooves behind her, a scatter of pebbles, and a man’s voice spoke.

“I say, ma’am, are you all right? Had a fall? May I—” He stopped abruptly, having seen the object. “Oh my God!” He gulped and caught his breath in a choking cough.

“The rest of him is in there.” Amanda gestured weakly towards the trough, where now a liveried knee was protruding from the bloody water.

* * *

Tellman looked down at Pitt in his chair with a dark, grim expression in his lantern face.

“Yes?” Pitt asked, his heart sinking.

“There’s been another,” Tellman said, staring back without wavering. “He’s done it again. This time you’ll have to arrest him.”

“He …?”

“Carvell. There’s another headless corpse in the park.”

Pitt’s heart sank even further. “Who is it?”

“Albert Scarborough, Carvell’s butler.” A shadow of bitter humor touched Tellman’s face. “Lady Kilbride found him in the horse trough. Or to be more accurate, all of him except his head,” he amended. “His head was behind it.”

“Horse trough where?”

“Rotten Row, a hundred yards or so short of Hyde Park Corner.”

Pitt tried to force the horror of it from the front of his mind and concentrate on the practical elements of the case. “Some distance from Green Street,” he observed. “Any idea how he got there?”

“Not yet. He was a big fellow, so there is no way Carvell could have carried him. Might have walked there.”

Pitt opened his eyes very wide. “Midnight stroll with his employer? Doesn’t seem like the sort of person one takes a walk with for pleasure. And as the assistant commissioner has been at pains to point out, no one is strolling around the park these nights.”

“So he didn’t walk there,” Tellman corrected with a grimace. “Carvell killed him in his home and took him there in some sort of conveyance. Could even have been his own carriage. Do you want to arrest him, or shall I?”

Pitt rose to his feet, his limbs suddenly very tired, as though his body were of enormous weight. He should have been relieved there was an end to the mystery, if not the terror or the tragedy of it; but he felt no sense of ease at all.

“I’ll go.” He went to the hat stand and took his hat, even though it was a fine morning. “You’d better come with me.”

“Yes sir.”

It was still before nine when Pitt and Tellman presented themselves at the front door of the house in Green Street. Pitt rang the bell, but it was several moments before it was answered.

“Yes sir?” A footman with untidy fair hair looked at him with anxiety.

“I would like to speak with Mr. Carvell, if you please,” Pitt said, but his voice was a command, not a request.

The footman was startled. “I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure Mr. Carvell has risen yet,” he said apologetically. “Could you call again at about ten o’clock?”

Tellman made as if to speak, but Pitt cut across him.

“I’m afraid it will not wait. The matter is of the utmost gravity. Will you tell him that Superintendent Pitt and Inspector Tellman are here and require to see him immediately.”

The footman paled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind and turned away without remembering to ask them to wait, or direct them to a more suitable place than the hall.

Within a few moments Carvell appeared in a dressing robe, his hair standing in spikes, his face pale and filled with fear.

“What has happened, Superintendent?” he said to Pitt, ignoring Tellman. “Is there something wrong? What brings you at this hour?”

Again Pitt felt the tug of reluctance and the familiar pity inside him.

“I am sorry, Mr. Carvell, but we require to search your premises and question your staff. I know it will inconvenience you, but it is necessary.”

“Why?” Carvell was now extremely anxious, his hands opened and closed at his sides and his face was ashen. “What has happened? For God’s sake, tell me what is wrong. Has—has there been another …?”

“Yes. Your butler, Albert Scarborough.” Pitt was obliged to step forward and steady Carvell as he swayed. He caught him by the elbow and steered him backwards to the fine oak settle a yard or so behind him. “You had better sit down.” He turned to the footman standing helplessly. “Get your master a small glass of brandy,” he ordered. Then, as the youth still stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide: “Jump to it!”

“Yes—yes, sir.” And the unfortunate young man ran out of the hall and disappeared, calling for the housekeeper in a shaking voice.

Pitt looked at Tellman.

“Go and start your search.”

Tellman had only been awaiting the order. He departed briskly, his face grim.

Pitt looked at Carvell, who appeared as if he might well be sick.

“You think I did it?” Carvell said huskily. “I can see it in your face, Superintendent. Why? Why in God’s name should I murder my butler?”

“I’m afraid the answer to that is unfortunately obvious, sir. He is in a perfect position to be aware of your liaison with Mr. Arledge, and of your possible involvement in his death. If that were so, you might well have felt it imperative, for your own safety, to be rid of him.”

Carvell struggled to speak, and failed. He stared up at Pitt for long, dreadful seconds, then with utter hopelessness, sank his head into his hands.

Pitt felt brutal. Tellman’s voice was drumming in his head, his contempt for Pitt’s squeamishness, Farnsworth’s charge that he was running away from his responsibility, both to his superiors, who had believed in him and had given him promotion, and to his juniors, whose loyalty he expected, and above all to the public. They had a right to believe they were getting the best the police force could offer and that he would set aside personal likes and dislikes, individual quirks of conscience or pity. He had accepted the job, with its honor and its reward. To do less than it required of him was a betrayal.

He looked at the wretched figure of Carvell in front of him. What had happened? What torrent of emotion had roared through him so that he had killed the man he loved? It could only be some kind of rejection, whether simply that the affair had died or that Arledge had found someone else.

Why Winthrop first? Winthrop must have been the other man. Somehow or other the bus conductor knew of it, not that night, but at some other time. And of course the sneering Scarborough had known it too. He tried to imagine the scene when the butler faced his master with his knowledge, standing very stiff and tall in his livery, his magnificent legs in silken stockings, his buttons and braid gleaming, his lip curled. He would have had no shred of an idea that his master would kill him too.

But that was stupid. He had already killed three other people. How could Scarborough have been so blindly confident as to have turned his back on a man he had threatened, and whom he knew to have murdered three times already? There could not have been a struggle. Scarborough was half Carvell’s weight again, and at least six inches taller. Any face-to-face combat he would have won easily. Pitt would have to ask the medical examiner if there were wounds on Scarborough’s body, a stab to the heart or something of that nature.

Tellman would already be searching. Would he begin by asking questions, or by looking for the place where it had happened? Or for some conveyance in which Carvell had taken the inert body of the butler to the horse trough in the park? Or the weapon? Presumably he had kept the weapon right from the beginning. Dangerous. Was he supremely confident he had hidden it, or that it would never be searched for in the right place? Or that if it was found it would not implicate him?

“Mr. Carvell?”

Carvell sat motionless.

“Mr. Carvell?”

“Yes?”

“When did you last see Scarborough alive?”

“I don’t know.” Carvell lifted his face. “Dinner time? You should ask the other servants, they would have seen him after I did.”

“Did he lock up last night?”

“I really don’t know, Superintendent. Yesterday was Aidan’s Requiem service. Do you imagine I cared who locked up the house? It could have been open all night for all I thought of it”

“How long had Scarborough been in your service?”

“Five years—no, six.”

“Were you satisfied with him?”

Carvell looked bemused. “He was good at his job, if that’s what you mean. If you want to know if I liked the man, no I didn’t. He was an objectionable creature, but he ran the house excellently.” He stared at Pitt with unfocused eyes. “I never had domestic trouble of any sort,” he said hollowly. “Every meal was on time, well cooked, and the household accounts were in perfect order. If there was ever a crisis, I didn’t hear about it. I have friends who were always having complaints of one sort or another. I never did. If he sneered occasionally I really didn’t care.” A self-mocking smile touched his mouth. “He was superb at arranging to entertain. He would see to any size or scale of dinner party or reception. I never had to see to anything myself.”

A maid crossed the landing above them but Carvell did not seem to be aware of her, or of the sounds of movement now coming from beyond the green baize door at the end of the hall.

“I would simply say, ‘Scarborough, I wish to have ten people to dinner next Thursday evening,’ ” he went on. “ ‘Will you see to it,’ and he did, and supplied an elegant menu at very reasonable cost. He hired in extra staff if they were needed, and none of them were ever impertinent, slack or dishonest. Yes, he was a condescending devil, but he was good enough at his profession for me to overlook it. I don’t know how I shall find anyone to replace him.”

Pitt said nothing.

Carvell gulped and gave a choking little laugh that ended in a sob.

“Or perhaps I shall be hanged, and then I won’t have to bother.”

“Did you kill Scarborough?” Pitt said very gently.

“No I didn’t,” Carvell replied quite calmly. “And before you ask me, I haven’t the slightest idea who did, or why.”

He was wretchedly miserable and frightened. Pitt questioned him for a further ten minutes, but he learned nothing that added either to his knowledge or to his impression of the man. He left him sitting crumpled up in the hall and went to see what Tellman had discovered.

He found him in the servants’ hall, a comparatively small place compared with some he had been in, but very comfortably furnished and with a pleasant smell of lavender and beeswax polish. The odor of luncheon cooking made him suddenly aware of hunger. The white-faced footman was standing to attention. An upstairs maid was in tears, a duster in her hand, a broom leaning against the wall. The housekeeper sat upright in a wooden-backed chair, her keys at her waist, ink, presumably from the household ledgers, on her fingers, her face looking as if she had just found something unspeakable on her plate. The scullery maid and the cook were absent. The kitchen maid was facing Tellman, a smudge of black lead on her sleeve from the stove, her expression tearful and obstinate.

Tellman looked around at Pitt. Seemingly his questioning of the maid was not worth pursuing.

“What have you learned?” Pitt asked quietly.

Tellman came over to him. “Very little,” he said, his face showing some surprise. “After the reception the staff spent a great deal of the afternoon clearing up. The extra footmen and maids hired for the event were paid off and left. One of them had been dismissed earlier for unbecoming conduct, I don’t know what it amounted to, some domestic misdemeanor. Nobody seemed to know exactly what. Carvell spent the afternoon out somewhere, the staff don’t know where, but the footman thinks it was simply to be alone and grieve in his own way.”

“Grieve?” Pitt said quickly.

Tellman looked at him without comprehension.

“Was the footman aware that Carvell had a profound feeling towards Arledge?” Pitt said under his breath, but with a sharpness to his voice.

Tellman shook his head. “Oh—no, I don’t think so. Seems he regarded any death as a very somber affair, needing a space for recovery.”

“Oh! What about Scarborough?”

“Spent the afternoon in his pantry, and checking the stock in the cellar,” Tellman replied, drawing Pitt a little farther away from the servants, who were all staring expectantly. “Dinner was a light affair, a cold collation of some sort. Carvell read in the library for a while, then retired early. Staff were excused at about eight. Scarborough locked up at ten and no one saw him after that.” Tellman’s face was uncompromising in its conviction, his dark, deep-set eyes level, his mouth in a hard line. “No one rang the doorbell, or the other staff would have heard. It rings in the kitchen, and in here.” He turned and gestured to the board with all the bells on, listed by room. The front door was plainly visible.

“And no break-in, I presume,” Pitt said, not even making it a question.

“No sir, nothing at all. All the windows and doors were properly fastened—” Tellman stopped.

“Yes?” Pitt said sharply. “Except?”

Tellman pulled a face. “Except the French doors in the dining room. The housemaid says she thinks they were open when she went in there this morning. At least not open, but unlocked. Carvell probably went out that way, and when he came back, forgot to bolt them.”

“Somebody did,” Pitt agreed. “It is just conceivable Scarborough went out that way himself, alive and quite voluntarily.”

Tellman’s face showed disbelief, and contempt for Pitt’s indecision. “What for?” His sneer was obvious. “Don’t tell me you think the butler went out into the park at night to pick up a woman? I thought we’d abandoned the idea it had anything to do with prostitutes. We knew that was daft when the commissioner said it! This is not a lunatic with an obsession about fornication, it’s a perfectly sane murderer who’s been betrayed in love and was out to get revenge—and then kill anyone who knew about it and threatened him!”

Pitt said nothing.

“Are you still thinking about Mitchell?” Tellman went on. “It makes no sense. Maybe he had a reason for killing Winthrop, but not the others; and certainly not the butler. Why on earth would Mitchell have anything to do with Carvell’s butler?”

“The only reason for anyone killing Scarborough is because he knew something,” Pitt answered. “But no, I can’t see any connection with Mitchell.”

“Then you are going to arrest Carvell?”

“Have you searched the house yet?”

“No, of course I haven’t. I’ve looked in Scarborough’s pantry and I’ve been upstairs to his room. There’s nothing there, but I didn’t expect anything.”

“Papers?”

Tellman looked surprised. “Papers? What sort of papers?”

“Record of money,” Pitt replied. “If he was blackmailing Carvell there should be something to show for it.”

“Over Arledge? Maybe he only just tried it after the murder, and met his payment last night.”

“Why would he wait that long? It’s been days since Arledge was killed.”

“I didn’t find anything, but I didn’t have time to read all the letters and things. I’ve questioned the cook about her meat cleaver, and looked in the garden shed for an ax. There isn’t one. They get their kindling wood ready cut.”

“What about the cleaver?”

“Can’t tell.” Tellman dismissed it with his tone. “Cook says it is exactly where she left it. Turned a very funny color, but I think she was telling the truth. Seems a well-disciplined sort of woman, no screaming or outrage. Sensible kind of person.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what he did with the weapon. I expect we’ll find it when we get a whole lot of men down here. My opinion, sir, Carvell will break when we get him in a cell and he realizes he can’t get away with it anymore. He’ll panic and tell us the bits we don’t know.”

“Possibly,” Pitt said, but he did not believe it, and it was there in his voice.

Tellman looked sour. He was fed up with Pitt’s prevarication and he took no trouble to conceal it.

“We’ve no reason not to now! We may not know all the details yet, but that’s only a matter of time. Even if we can’t get him for the bus conductor, we’ve got him for Arledge and Scarborough.” He turned and moved a step away. “Shall I send for the wagon, or can we take him in a hansom? I don’t think he’ll give any trouble. Not the sort.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed reluctantly. “Take him in a hansom.” He was about to add not to force on him any unnecessary indignity, then realized how foolish that was, and how unlikely to affect Tellman in the way he acted.

“You’re not coming?” Tellman said in surprise, already the sneer in his eyes that Pitt would not do it himself.

“I’ll arrest him,” Pitt said. “You take him to the station. I want to stay here and see what else I can find.”

Carvell was not surprised when he saw them return. He was still sitting in the hall where they had left him, looking pale and sick. He raised his head when he recognized Pitt’s step. He said nothing, but the question was plain in his eyes.

“Jerome Carvell.” Pitt hated the sound of his voice as he said the familiar words. The change in tone, the sudden complete formality presaged what he was going to say, and Carvell’s face suddenly took a numb, almost bruised look, all his fear become reality. “I am arresting you for the murder of Albert Scarborough.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Carvell said quietly, without hope of being believed. He rose to his feet and held out his hands. He looked at Pitt. “Or any of the others.”

There was nothing for Pitt to say. He wanted to believe him, and some small fraction of him did, but the evidence could no longer be ignored.

“Inspector Tellman will take you to the station. There is no need for manacles.”

“Thank you,” Carvell said almost under his breath, and dutifully, shoulders stooped, face white, he went across the hall with Tellman and out of the front door. He made no attempt to move suddenly, still less to loose himself from Tellman’s grip. The passion, even the life, seemed to have gone out of him as if a long-awaited and inevitable blow had finally fallen.

Pitt went upstairs to the butler’s room and searched it meticulously; he found no more than Tellman had. He came down again and looked through the house, the main reception rooms and the servants’ hall, butler’s pantry, housekeeper’s sitting room and kitchen, laundry, scullery and still room, and found nothing of interest Lastly he went out into the mews and stables, where the footmen told him Carvell kept one horse and a light two-seater gig which he sometimes used on a summer afternoon, driving himself with considerable skill and pleasure. The animal was looked after by the bootboy, who took delight in escaping from the house on any pretext, and really there were few enough boots to occupy his time. He also assisted the gardener when there was little to do outside, and the winter mud necessitated extra grooming and polishing.

“Yes sir?” he said in a businesslike fashion when Pitt approached him, his broad, good-natured face full of concern.

“May I look at your stable and carriage house?” Pitt asked, although it was a formality. He would not have accepted a refusal.

“Yes sir, if you want to.” The boy looked surprised. “But there’s nothing missing, sir. Gig’s there, and all the harness, like.”

“Nevertheless I’d like to look.” Pitt walked past him and up to the stable door. It was a long time since he had been near horses. The warm smell of the animal, the paved yard under his feet, the odor of leather and polish brought back memories of long ago on the estate where he had grown up, of the stables and tack rooms there, and then of the feeling of a horse under him, its power and speed, matching its will to his, the art and the joy of being one with the animal. And then the work afterwards, the brushing and cleaning, the putting away, the aching muscles and the exhilaration, and then the peace. It all seemed a very long time ago now. Dulcie Arledge would have understood, with her love of horses, the long ride to hounds, the exhaustion of muscles, the ache that was half pleasure.

Absentmindedly he patted the animal’s neck. The boy was just behind him.

“Have you brushed him this morning?” Pitt asked, looking at the horse’s hooves and seeing a few smears of mud on them, a few dry grasses clinging to the hair of its fetlocks.

“No sir. What with Mr. Scarborough being gorn, like, and nobody knowing what ’ad happened to ’im, the ’ole kitchen is in a state.”

“Did you brush him last night?”

“Oh, yes sir! Shone like a new penny, ’e did. ’E’s got a real good coat on ’im. ’aven’t yer, Sam?” he said, patting the animal and receiving a gentle nuzzle in reply.

Pitt pointed to the mud.

“Well that weren’t ’ere last night!” the boy said indignantly. ’Ere!” His face paled and his eyes widened. “Yer mean someone ’ad ’im out? In the night, like?”

“Looks like it,” Pitt answered, gazing around the stable floor just to make sure there was no mud tracked in and that the horse could have stood in it, but it was immaculate. Bootboy or not, he was a diligent groom. “Let’s have a look at the gig.” He turned towards the carriage house. Now the boy was almost treading on his heels.

He swung open the carriage house door and saw a smart gig propped up, its shafts gleaming in the sunlight, its paintwork spotless. He turned to the boy. “Look at it carefully. Look at the harness. Is it exactly how you left it?”

There was a long silence while the boy looked minutely at everything, every piece of leather or brass, without touching a thing. Finally he let out his breath in a long sigh and faced Pitt.

“I can’t be sure, sir. It sort of looks the same, but I’m not certain about them straps up there. The harness was on that ’ook, but I don’t think them bridles next to it was that way ’round. I couldn’t swear to it, mind!”

Pitt said nothing but went over to the gig and peered inside. It was clean, polished, doors fastened, seats bare.

“ ’As it bin used, sir?” the boy asked from just behind him.

“Not so far as I can see,” Pitt replied, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He unlatched the door and opened it. It swung wide on well-greased hinges. He looked down at the step and saw a thread of fabric caught around the screw that held down the sill. He bent to catch it between his finger and thumb and ease it very gently away. He held it up towards the light. It was long, pale, coiled like a corkscrew.

“Watcha got?” the boy asked, his eyes fixed on it.

“I don’t know yet,” Pitt replied, but that was not true. He was almost sure it was a thread from a footman’s livery stockings. “Thank you,” he added. “I’ll see if there’s anything else. Does Mr. Scarborough ride in this gig, do you know?”

“No sir. Mr. Scarborough stayed in the ’ouse, sir. Mr. Carvell drove it ’isself, and if he sent anyone on an errand it were me.”

“Do you ever wear livery?”

The boy’s face split into a grin. “What, me! No sir. Mr. Scarborough’d ’ave a fit if I got fancy ideas like that. Put me in me place right quick, ’e would.”

“No stockings?”

“No! Why?” He looked at the thread again, suddenly serious. “Did that come from someone’s stockings?”

“Probably.” Pitt would rather not have had him realize that, but it was too late now, and the questions were unavoidable. It would have been proof of nothing if Scarborough had used the gig himself. He put the thread into a screw of paper and then into his inside pocket. There was little point in asking the boy not to repeat it to the rest of the household, but he did anyway.

“Oh no, sir,” the boy replied solemnly, backing away, then following Pitt as he searched the rest of the gig and the carriage house before returning to the back door, unaccountably tired, as if the energy were drained out of him.

Pitt did not go back to Bow Street. He was angry, with no reason, and loath to go and see the formal charge against Carvell. Farnsworth would be oozing satisfaction and it would gall Pitt bitterly. He felt no sense of achievement at all. It was a tragedy of such proportions all he could think of was the darkness and the pain of it. When he closed his eyes he could see Dulcie’s sweet, intelligent face, and the terrible shock in it when he had told her of her husband’s love for another man. She had accepted that he had had some involvement with another person, but that it should have been a man had almost broken her courage.

And yet deeply as Pitt abhorred it, there was a part of him still suffering a kind of shock, not yet accepting that it was Carvell.

He gave the cabdriver Nigel Uttley’s address. It would serve no purpose at all, but he wished to tell Uttley he knew it was he who had attacked Jack. It would be acutely satisfying to frighten the man, and he could not see how it would harm Jack. Anything Uttley was able to do in that line, he would do anyway, regardless of Pitt.

He arrived there to find Uttley out, which was infuriating, but he should not have been surprised. It was very close to the by-election now. He might well be absent all day.

“I really cannot say, sir,” the footman replied coolly. “It is possible he may return before dinner. If you wish to wait you may sit in the morning room.”

Pitt hesitated only a moment, then accepted. He would wait exactly half an hour. If Uttley did not return by then he would leave his card with a cryptic message on it, and hope it unsettled Uttley as much as possible.

For over forty minutes he walked up and down the elegantly and economically furnished room, surprisingly comfortable in its simplicity. Then he heard Uttley’s voice in the hall, sharp with surprise.

“Pitt? Whatever for now? Poor devil’s hopeless, isn’t he? I don’t know what he imagines I can do. My God, there’ll be some change in the police when I’m in office. Excuse me, Weldon. I’ll only be a few moments.” His step sounded briskly on the marble-inlaid floor until he opened the morning room door and stood just inside the entrance, big, square-shouldered, dressed in a pale suit and beautifully polished boots. He looked casual and supremely confident. “Good afternoon, Superintendent. What can I do for you this time?” His expression was full of amusement.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Uttley,” Pitt replied. “I came to tell you that we know who attacked Mr. and Mrs. Radley the other evening, although precisely why is not clear.” He raised his eyebrows. “It seemed such a pointless thing to have done.”

“I would have thought that all crime of that sort was rather pointless,” Uttley replied, leaning against the doorpost and smiling. “But it was civil of you to come and tell me you have solved it.” He looked at Pitt, hesitated a moment, then went on. “Was it the Headsman after all, or some chance thief?”

“Neither,” Pitt said, equally calmly. “It was a political opportunist hoping to make a little capital out of the present tragedies in order to gain office for himself. I don’t imagine he intended actually to kill Mr. Radley …”

Uttley paled. He still leaned against the doorway, but now his pose was contrived and his body rigid.

“Indeed.” He swallowed, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “You mean someone wanted to get rid of Radley? Frighten him out of his—candidacy?”

“No, I don’t.” Pitt held his gaze. “I think he wanted to make Radley’s position of defending the police seem absurd and cause him to be laughed at by the public.”

Uttley said nothing.

“Which is not as feasible as it might have seemed,” Pitt continued. “Because it angered a number of people with a great deal of power.”

Uttley swallowed, his throat tight. His hands were clenched by his sides.

“In certain quarters,” Pitt added with a smile. “People with influence more than one might suppose.”

“You mean—” Uttley stopped short.

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Pitt agreed.

Uttley cleared his throat. “What—what are you going to do about it? I … suppose you have no proof, or you would arrest the fellow, wouldn’t you? After all, it’s an offense—isn’t it!”

“I don’t know whether Mr. Radley will prefer charges or not,” Pitt said offhandedly. “That is up to him. Since he didn’t report it in the regular way, maybe he considers it will rebound upon the perpetrator sufficiently that justice will be served without his taking any hand in it.”

“But you?” Uttley said, taking a step forward. “What about you? You … didn’t say whether you had proof or not.” He was watching Pitt very closely.

“No, I didn’t, did I?” Pitt agreed.

Uttley was beginning to gain confidence. His shoulders straightened a little.

“Sounds rather like guesswork to me, Superintendent,” he said, pushing his hands back into his pockets. “I imagine that is what you would like it to be. The assistant commissioner would be less … critical of your performance.”

Pitt smiled. “Oh, Mr. Farnsworth had very strong feelings about it indeed,” he agreed. “He was furious.”

Uttley froze.

“But I rather think he would like to deal with it in his own way,” Pitt continued lightly. “That is the one reason I have not bothered to make a case. The proof is there. I don’t think Mr. Farnsworth would have accepted my word for it otherwise. After all, it is so incredibly … inept! Isn’t it?”

Uttley forced a sickly smile, but words failed him.

“I thought you should know,” Pitt concluded, smiling back at him. “The next time you write an article, I’m sure you will wish to be fair.” And with that he put his own hands in his pockets. “Good day, Mr. Uttley.” He walked past him and out of the front door into the sun.

Pitt arrived home with no sense of elation. The satisfaction of having bested Uttley had worn off, and all he could think of was Carvell’s shocked and despairing face. Even with his eyes closed he could see his hunched shoulders as he walked out beside Tellman, and the slightly spiky hair at the back of his head when the light caught it as he went down the steps.

For once Charlotte was home. She had been away so often in the last few months, organizing one thing or another for the new house, he had fully expected to find the place silent and nothing but a message on the kitchen table. However, there was the cheerful noise of bustle, kettle hissing, pans bubbling and the clink of china and swish of skirts. When he pushed open the kitchen door the room was bright with late sun and filled with the aroma of fresh bread, clean linen on the rack above him hanging from the high ceiling, steam from the kettle, and a faint savor of cooking meat from the oven.

Gracie was finishing tidying away after the children’s supper and she whisked the last dishes off the table and put them on the dresser before dropping him a hasty bob and fleeing upstairs. A passing thought occurred to him to wonder why, but Jemima launched herself at him with cries of delight and demands that he listen to her account of the day. Daniel pulled faces and tugged at his sleeve to show him a paper kite he had made.

Charlotte dried her hands on her apron and came over to him immediately, poking her hair back into its pins, then smiling as she kissed him. For several minutes he was involved in giving everyone due attention before Daniel and Jemima departed, satisfied, and they were left alone.

“You look very tired,” Charlotte said, looking at him closely. “What’s happened?”

He was glad not to have to find a way of cutting through her stories of the house and its triumphs and disasters in order to catch her attention and tell her. Too often if he had to seek for her to listen, there was no sense of sharing and no release in it.

“I arrested Jerome Carvell,” he replied. He knew she was watching his face and would read the emotions in him. She knew him far too well to imagine it would please him or give him any sense of victory.

“Why?” she asked.

It was not the response he had expected, but it was a good one. He told her everything that had happened during the day, including his visit to Uttley. She listened in silence, but she did smile towards the end.

“You are not sure Carvell did it, are you?” she said at last.

“I suppose my head tells me he must have, at least Scarborough, even if not the others. It was certainly his gig that was used to take him from the house to the park, and he had an excellent reason if the man was blackmailing him.”

“But?” she asked.

“But I find it so hard to think he would kill Arledge. I cannot help but believe he loved him.”

“Is it possible he killed Scarborough but not Arledge?” she asked.

“No. His only reason would be if Scarborough knew something that would damn him. The relationship itself doesn’t seem enough after all this time. He must have known about it before. And servants who betray confidences about their masters’ private lives don’t find another position. He would have to make enough out of his blackmail to live on for the rest of his life. No—it—” He fell silent. There was really nothing more to say.

She finished cooking the dinner and they ate it in companionable silence. He went up to see the children, and read a very short story, before saying good-night, then came back down again and sat in the parlor, thinking that for all the pleasure of moving to a larger house, a beautiful house with a garden in which he would take intense delight, if he ever had the time, still there had been so much of his happiness here in this house, rich memories, and he would not leave it without regret and a sense of tearing.

Charlotte sat on the floor beside him, her sewing idle, her thoughts who knew where, but the warmth of her close to him gave him a sense of peace so sweet he eventually fell asleep in his chair, and she had to waken him to go to bed.

At noon the following day Bailey came into the Bow Street station looking worried and out of breath, his long face flushed and his eyes filled with a strange mixture of anxiety and determination.

Pitt was downstairs with Tellman and le Grange, discussing the final details of evidence.

“You’ve still got to find the weapon, or at least—”

“He could have thrown it anywhere,” Tellman argued.

“In the river,” le Grange added with a glance of sympathy at Pitt. “We may never find it. It could be under the mud by now. It’s tidal, you know?”

“Of course I know it’s tidal!” Pitt said. “If you hadn’t interrupted me I would have said, or at least the place where he was killed. He can’t have thrown that away.”

“He killed Scarborough right where he was found,” Tellman replied, disregarding Bailey, who was moving from one foot to the other in impatience.

“And Arledge?” Pitt insisted. “Where did he kill him, and how did he get him to the bandstand?”

“In a wheelbarrow, or something of the sort,” le Grange replied, attempting to be helpful.

“Whose wheelbarrow?” Pitt pressed. “Not his own. You looked at that: no blood anywhere. Not the park keeper’s either. You looked at that.”

“I don’t know,” Tellman admitted grudgingly. “But we’ll find it.”

“Good! Because without it you are giving the defense an excellent weapon to raise doubt. No wheelbarrow, no murder site, no weapon and no proof of a motive.”

“A quarrel, jealousy. His gig was used for moving Scarborough, and his horse to pull it,” Tellman responded. “Not to mention Scarborough was his butler.”

“Tidy it up,” Pitt commanded. “You aren’t finished yet.”

Bailey could not contain himself any longer.

“ ’E didn’t kill the bus conductor!” he burst out. “ ’E was at the concert, just like ’e said!”

Tellman glared at him.

“I found someone ’oo saw ’im,” Bailey said defiantly. “No mistake. Stood as close to ’im as I am to you, and knew ’im quite well.”

“Who is he?” Tellman asked, doubt heavy in his voice.

“Manager o’ Courts Bank,” Bailey said with profound satisfaction. “They’re bankers to royalty, they are.”

Tellman’s face pinched. “Maybe the bus conductor was done by somebody else,” he said irritably. “We couldn’t work out how he fitted with anyone.”

“Yes,” le Grange agreed. “Perhaps we couldn’t make any connection because there wasn’t one. Maybe it was just a private revenge for something, and whoever did it made it look the same?”

“Maybe they’re all different,” Pitt said sarcastically. “But I doubt it. No, it looks as if Carvell is not the Headsman. Thank you Bailey. An excellent piece of work.”

Bailey flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re not going to let him go, are you?” le Grange asked with wide eyes, forgetting the “sir.”

Tellman made a short, sneering sound, but it seemed to be anger in general, rather than directed specifically at Pitt.

“Yes I am,” Pitt replied. “A good lawyer will force us to anyway. There are too many other possible explanations.”

“It was his gig and his horse,” Tellman said darkly. “He damned well has something to do with it”

“Scarborough could conceivably have taken it himself,” Pitt replied. Then as Tellman’s face showed quite plainly his total disbelief, he added, “A lawyer would point that out, and a jury might very well consider it reasonable doubt. It is not impossible to steal a gig, especially if you have the connivance of the butler, who might well have keys. Carvell has no stable boy.”

“Oh yes?” Tellman said incredulously. “What for? Just to take a midnight spin after a long day ordering the other servants around?”

“Maybe he had a lady friend,” Pitt suggested. “Nice and impressive to roll up in a handsome gig. Much better than an omnibus, and less expensive than a cab, as well as giving him more freedom. A romantic ride in the park, perhaps?”

“With the Headsman around?” Tellman said scornfully. “Very romantic.”

“Or maybe he intended to pick up a prostitute,” Pitt continued.

Tellman gave him a filthy look. “Are we back to that again? I thought we’d dismissed that.”

“We have,” Pitt agreed. “Doesn’t mean to say any lawyer worth his fee couldn’t make a case for it.”

Tellman swung around to Bailey and le Grange.

“Then you’d better start all over again, hadn’t you. God knows where, or with what!”

“With finding where Arledge was killed,” Pitt answered him.

Tellman swore long and viciously and without repeating himself.

Pitt also went back to the beginning. It was a long time since he had thought of Oakley Winthrop and centered his deliberations on Winthrop’s death instead of Arledge’s. That had been the start of it, perhaps the one on which all the rest hung. Who had killed Winthrop, why, and why at that time? Whom had he met in the park that night that he would get into a pleasure boat with? He should have given that more thought. It was the key.

It was an absurd thing to do. It could only have been someone he knew, someone of whom he had had no fear. But even so, why? What possible reason could anyone have, even a friend, for such a ridiculous activity in the middle of the night?

Bart Mitchell?

Or Bart and Mina?

He alighted from the hansom and crossed the pavement to the Winthrops’ front door, and rang the bell. It was answered almost immediately by the parlormaid.

“Good afternoon.” He passed her his card. “Will you please ask Mrs. Winthrop if I may speak with her? It is a matter of some importance.”

She took the card, and returned only a few moments later to conduct him to the withdrawing room, where Mina was standing by the window staring into the garden. She was dressed in deep green which was so dark it was almost black except for the sheen on it where the sunlight fell. It suited her marvelously, complementing her fair skin and long slender neck. Her soft hair was coiled on her head. She was smiling, and suddenly Pitt could see in her the girl she must have been twenty years before.

Bart Mitchell was standing by the mantel shelf watching Pitt with vivid blue eyes, his expression guarded.

“Good afternoon, Superintendent,” Mina said warmly, coming towards him. “Is there something more I can tell you? I’m sure I don’t know what. I have searched my mind over and over, but nothing seems to mean anything.”

“It wasn’t about your husband I was going to speak, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt replied. He glanced at Bart Mitchell and acknowledged him, then looked back at Mina. “It was about Mr. Arledge I wished to ask you.”

She looked startled.

“Mr. Arledge?”

“Yes ma’am. I believe you knew him?”

“I—not to say knew him. I …” She looked confused, and glanced at her brother.

“Why do you ask, Superintendent?” Bart stepped forward into the middle of the room. “Surely you don’t imagine Mrs. Winthrop had anything to do with his death? That would be absurd.”

“I am looking for information, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt replied with a small gesture of courtesy towards Mina. “An observation, a word overheard, or a perception which only now seems relevant.”

“I apologize,” Bart said stiffly, and without moving back. “But why would Mina know anything pertinent about Arledge’s death? She met him only very formally on the occasion of attending one or two of his concerts. That’s hardly a personal friendship where she could know the sort of detail you imply.”

Pitt ignored him and looked at Mina.

“You did know Mr. Arledge, ma’am?”

“Well.” She hesitated. “I did meet him one or two times. I am very fond of music. He was such a good musician, you know.”

“Yes, so I believe,” Pitt conceded. “But surely you also knew him a little more personally, Mrs. Winthrop? You were not merely a member of the audience.”

Bart’s chin came up and his eyes were sharp.

“What are you suggesting, Superintendent? Normally such a question might be quite inoffensive, but since you are investigating why the man was murdered, your remarks take a quite different tone. My sister’s acquaintance with Mr. Arledge was slight, and there was nothing whatsoever improper in it.”

“Of course not, Bart,” Mina said carefully and with apology in her voice. “I don’t imagine that was what the superintendent was thinking. There would be no cause for such an idea.” She turned back to Pitt. “A few pleasant words, that is all, I assure you. Had I been aware of anything at all which could help you, do you not think I would have sent word to you immediately? After all, he was killed by the same man who murdered my husband!”

“Mina!” Bart said quickly. “Of course there was nothing improper in it. That is not the superintendent’s train of thought. He is supposing that, for that very reason, you may have known more than you are willing to tell.”

“No it is not, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt said sharply, but not entirely truthfully. “There may be a connection Mrs. Winthrop is unaware of. As you have pointed out, there must be a connection of some sort.”

Bart looked at him with his remarkable eyes hostile and guarded.

“Mrs. Winthrop?” Pitt pursued.

She looked at him with wide innocence and said nothing.

He was obliged to be specific. “You were observed to be in a state of distress at a reception after a concert, and Mr. Arledge spent some time comforting you. You appeared to confide in him.”

“Oh.” She drew in her breath in a gasp, then looked at Bart, her eyes full of fear and shame.

He came forward to stand beside her.

“Whoever reported that to you, Superintendent, did so in very poor taste,” he said stiffly. “It was a small domestic matter, such as happens to all of us from time to time, and can have had nothing to do with why Mr. Arledge was killed. For Heaven’s sake, man, how can”—he hesitated, only a second—“the death of a household pet be connected with a lunatic from God knows where who cuts people’s heads off in Hyde Park? That is absurd. If you have no better clues to chase than that, no wonder the wretch is still at large!”

Mina gulped. “You are being unfair, Bart. The superintendent could not have known that it was … as—as you said. All he knew was that I was distressed and Mr. Arledge comforted me. It could have been of importance.” She smiled at Pitt with embarrassment. “I’m sorry it is so totally useless to you. I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere. Mr. Arledge was merely being kind to me because the music had touched my emotions. He would no doubt have done the same for anyone. That is the depth of our acquaintance, I’m afraid. He said nothing to me that would throw any light on his death. In fact I cannot even remember what he did say. It was all rather general.”

She hesitated as if about to add something, then looked nervously at her brother.

“Did you know Mr. Arledge, sir?” Pitt asked suddenly.

“No!” Mina said instantly, then blushed at her forwardness. “Oh! I am sorry, that was most rude of me. I simply meant that—that—Bart has only recently returned from abroad.”

“When was this incident, ma’am, exactly?”

She paled. “I—I don’t recall … exactly. Some time ago.”

“Before the injury to your wrist?” he asked.

There was a moment’s total silence. The clock on the table by the window sounded like twigs breaking it was so loud.

“That was only the other day,” Bart said icily. “An accident with a pot of tea. A clumsy maid who did not look where she was going.” His blue eyes bored into Pitt’s with anger and challenge. “Surely you know that, Superintendent?”

“I was referring to the bruises, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt replied without flinching.

“That was my own fault too!” Mina said quickly. “Really it was. I—I …” She turned to face Pitt, away from her brother. All the confidence had drained away from her. She looked frightened and guilty. “I was being foolish, Superintendent, and my husband caught hold of me to … to prevent me from falling. I had already lost my footing and—and so …”

Bart was seething with some emotion he could barely suppress, and yet dared not reveal. He seemed on the verge of exploding into speech, and his face was dark with fury.

“And so his strength—my weight…” Mina stammered. “It was all very silly—and entirely of my own causing.”

“It was not your fault!” Bart lost control at last; his voice was quivering and very low. “You must stop blaming yourself for—” He stopped, turning to glare at Pitt, both his hands around Mina, holding her as if she might fall if he let her go. “Superintendent, all this has really nothing whatever to do with your inquiry. It happened long before Mr. Arledge’s death, and had no relevance to it whatever. I am afraid we neither of us had any personal acquaintance with him, and much as we would like to, we cannot help you. Good day, sir.”

“I see.” Pitt did not believe him, still less did he believe Mina, but there was nothing he could do to prove it. He was convinced Oakley Winthrop had beaten Mina, frequently and severely, and she was terrified that when Bart had seen it he had killed Winthrop, or that Pitt would think so. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said politely. “Mr. Mitchell.” And with a bow, but no pretense of accepting their words as truth, he excused himself and took his leave.