Hyde Park Headsman

10

THE DAY FINALLY came for moving house. Since the Headsman was still at large and the mystery as deep as ever, Pitt was unable to offer more than an hour or two’s help. Of course he had employed men to pack and move the furniture, and Charlotte had spent all the previous day rolling glasses and cups and plates in old newspaper and wedging them carefully in boxes. All clothes were packed up, and linen; carpets had been taken up in the morning, and now everything was on its way from the old Bloomsbury house to the new house, which was finally decorated. The tiles around the fires had been replaced, all the gas brackets mended and in working order, shades were whole, every tiny piece of coving and dado rail mended or replaced, and the wallpaper and paint were immaculate.

Now that the reality was here, the children had realized exactly what moving meant. A whole new world beckoned full of excitement, experience, possibly adventure. When he had first got up Daniel had jiggled up and down with exuberance without really knowing why, and his questions had been endless. It had not noticeably dampened his spirits that no one had answered most of them.

Jemima had been quieter. Being two years older, it had taken her less time to realize that accepting the new inevitably means relinquishing the old, and the pain and uncertainty that brought with it. She had bursts of enthusiasm and curiosity, then long silences when she gazed around the familiar places, saddened that they now looked bare and already abandoned without curtains, pictures or the family furniture. When the carpets were rolled up it was as if the floor itself had been removed, and she spent several minutes rather tearfully with Gracie chiding her and hugging her, and giving her a string of instructions how to be useful, none of which she was able to follow.

However, by half past ten, Gracie and both children had gone with Pitt in the hansom, squashed rather uncomfortably close together in its narrow confines. There was no way in which Charlotte could also have ridden, quite apart from the fact that they had gone first in order to open the house and be ready to receive the goods when they arrived. Charlotte, on the other hand, was waiting till every last thing was packed and she had made triply sure that nothing whatsoever was left behind, forgotten, or mislaid, and the door was latched for the last time.

When all was accomplished and she had given the removal men the new address yet again, she picked up her two very best cushions, hand embroidered in silks, which were far too good to entrust to the men and too big to put in the boxes. She wrapped them in an old sheet, closed the front door once more, and hesitated on the step, looking around.

Then she pulled herself together and walked down the path to the gate. There was no time to think of all the happiness she had had here, or of regrets. Memories could not be left behind. They were part of one, carried in the heart.

She went through the gate, closed it, and set out along the pavement towards the omnibus stop, carrying the sheet with its two cushions. They did look a trifle like laundry and she was glad not to pass anyone she knew.

The omnibus came within five minutes and gratefully she stepped up, lugging the cushions behind her.

“I’m sorry miss, yer can’t bring ’em in ’ere,” the conductor said sharply, his round face full of contempt. He stood squarely in front of her, chin jutting out, brass buttons gleaming, expression bright with authority.

Charlotte stared at him, taken completely by surprise.

“You’ll ’ave to get orf!” he ordered. “There’d be no room for fare-payin’ passengers if I let every washerwoman in Bloomsbury get on ’ere with—”

“It’s not laundry,” Charlotte said indignantly. “It’s cushions.”

“I don’t care what it is,” the conductor replied with a laugh. “It could be the Queen’s nightshirt for all I care. Yer can’t bring it in ’ere. There ain’t no room for it. Now be a good girl and get orf, so the rest of us can be on our way.”

“I’m moving house!” Charlotte said desperately. “My husband and children have gone on ahead. I’ve got to catch up with them.”

“That’s as may be, but you ain’t doing it on my bus—not with that bag full o’ laundry! What d’yer think this is, a trades van?” He pointed his finger towards the pavement. “Now get orf, before I call the police and yer gets taken in custody for causing a disturbance.”

Someone else inside the bus came forward, an elderly gentleman with a mustache and a black walking stick in his hand.

“Let the poor creature ride,” he said to the conductor. “I’m sure there’s room, if she holds it on her knee.”

“You sit down, sir, and don’t go interferin’ in what ain’t your business,” the conductor commanded him. “I’ll take care o’ this.”

“But …” the old gentleman began again.

“Sit down, you silly old duffer,” a woman called out from the inside. “Don’t interfere! ’E knows what ’e’s doing. Goodness sakes, you can’t ’ave people bringing on their laundry! Whatever next?”

“She said it’s not laundry—” The man was interrupted brusquely by the conductor.

“You go and sit down, sir, else I’ll ’ave to put yer orf too. We gotta keep to a time ’ere, yer know!” He turned back to Charlotte. “Now look ’ere, miss, are yer goin’ to get orf on yer own, or do I ’ave ter call the rozzers and ’ave yer taken in charge fer disturbin’ the peace?”

Charlotte was too furious to speak. She let out her breath in a gasp of rage and stepped back off the platform onto the pavement. She only thought to thank the old gentleman who had tried to help her when it was too late and the bus had jolted forward, overbalancing him until he fell against the conductor and had to pick himself up. The driver shouted at the horses again and cracked his whip in the air above their backs and they gathered speed, leaving Charlotte alone on the footpath with her cushions, and a monumental rage.

“Where on earth have you been?” Pitt said, staring at her when she finally arrived, hot, untidy, hair falling all over the place and her cheeks still burning with temper, the cushions clasped in her clenched fist.

“I have been in a hansom cab,” she replied heatedly. “That driveling officious little … swine wouldn’t let me on the omnibus!”

“What?” Pitt was confused. “What are you talking about? Everything’s here. The men have unpacked about half of it.”

“The impertinent, condescending, arrogant little toad wouldn’t let me on with the cushions …” she went on furiously.

“Why not?” He frowned at her. He could see that she was bristling with rage, but he did not perceive the reason. “What do you mean? Wasn’t it the ordinary omnibus?”

“Yes of course it was the ordinary omnibus!” she shouted. “The autocratic, bossy, self-opinionated little oaf thought the cushions were laundry, and he wouldn’t let me get on. He even threatened to call the police and have me taken in charge for disturbing the peace!”

Pitt’s mouth twitched and his eyes were very bright, but after a moment of total silence when her blazing expression dared him to be amused, he composed himself to suitable sympathy.

“I’m sorry. Let me take the cushions.” He held out his hand. She thrust them at him. “Where are the men now? I don’t see them.”

“Gone ’round the corner to the public house to have lunch. They’ll be back in half an hour or so to unpack the rest. Gracie is in the kitchen.” He gazed around the drawing room where they were standing. “This really is very nice indeed. You’ve done a magnificent work here.”

“Don’t humor me,” she said tartly. But she was longing to smile and she sniffed and stared around also. He was right, it was looking very good indeed. “Where are the children?”

“In the garden. The last I saw of them, Daniel was up the apple tree and Jemima had found a hedgehog and was talking to it.”

“Good.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Do you think they’ll like it?”

His expression answered her question without the necessity of words.

“Have you seen the green room upstairs? That’s going to be our bedroom. Here, let me show you.” He considered saying he really had not time, and changed his mind. And as soon as they were upstairs he was glad he had changed his mind. The room had a peace about it, a sense of apartness from the haste and the bustle of the streets. The wind was rustling the leaves and the light flickered in bright patterns over the walls. There was no other sound. He found himself smiling, and looking across at Charlotte. Her face was full of expectancy. “Yes,” he said with complete honesty. “I’ve never been in a better room in my life.”

The day of the by-election was gusty with sudden showers and bars of brilliant sun. Jack was out as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and Emily could not remain in the house alone on tenterhooks, even though she knew she was of little assistance, and now even moral support was not enough to still the nerves.

Nigel Uttley was also out early. He was smiling confidently, chatting with friends and supporters, but watching him closely one might see that something of his former swagger was gone and there was an edge of anxiety visible in him now and again.

A few at a time those men entitled to vote went to the polling station and cast their ballots. They emerged looking at no one and hurried away.

The morning passed slowly. Emily moved from one place to another with Jack, trying to think of something to say that was encouraging without building his confidence when he could so easily lose. And yet as she watched the men coming and going, overheard snatches of their conversation, she could not help the surge of hope inside her that he would win.

And there was only winning and losing. Tomorrow either he would be a member of Parliament, with all the opportunity and responsibility, the work, the chance of fame which it afforded, or else he would be the loser, with no position, no profession. Uttley would be there smiling, confident, the winner. She would have to try to comfort Jack, to help him believe in himself, find something to look forward to, some other cause to build and care about and labor towards.

By a little after two o’clock she was emotionally drained, and the whole length of the afternoon still stretched ahead of her. By five she was beginning to believe that Jack really could win. Her spirits soared with hope, then plummeted with despair.

By the time the polls closed she was exhausted, untidy, and generally more footsore than she could ever remember. She and Jack went home in silence, sitting close together in a hansom. They did not speak. Neither of them knew what to say, now that the battle was over and only the news of victory or defeat lay ahead.

At home they had a late supper, too tense to enjoy it. Emily could not have said afterwards what it had been, except she thought she recalled the pink of salmon on the plate, but whether it had been poached or smoked she could not say. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering when they would be finished counting and they would know.

“Do you think …?” she began, just as Jack spoke also.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing! It was of no importance. You?”

“Nothing much, just that it could be a long time. You don’t have to …”

She froze him with a look.

“All right,” he said apologetically. “I just thought …”

“Well don’t. It’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to wait until the last vote is counted and we know.”

He rose from the table. It was quarter past nine.

“Well let us at least do it in the withdrawing room, where we can be as comfortable as possible.”

She accepted with a smile and followed him into the hall. Almost as soon as they were out of the dining room door Harry, the youngest footman, appeared from the archway under the stairs, his fair hair untidy, his face flushed.

“They’re still counting, sir!” he said breathlessly. “I just came back from the ’all, but I reckon as they done most of ’em, an both piles looks about the same to me. You could win, sir! Mr. Jenkins says as you will!”

“Thank you, Harry,” Jack said with a voice very nearly level. “But I think perhaps Jenkins is speaking more from loyalty than knowledge.”

“Oh no, sir,” Harry said with unaccustomed assurance. “Everyone in the servants’ ’all reckons as yer goin’ ter win. That Mr. Uttley’s not near as clever as ’e thinks. Cook says as ’e’s overdone ’isself this time. An’ ’e’s not married neither, which Mrs. ’Edges says as makes ’im socially much sought after by rich ladies wif daughters, but they don’t trust ’im the same as a man wot’s got a family, like.” His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement, and he stood very straight, his shoulders back.

“Thank you,” Jack said gravely. “I hope you are not going to be too disappointed if I don’t win?”

“Oh no, sir,” Harry said cheerfully. “But you will!” And with that he turned and went back through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters.

“Oh dear,” Jack sighed, resuming his way to the withdrawing room. “They are going to take it very hard.”

“We all will,” Emily agreed, going through the door as he opened it for her. “But it is hardly worth fighting for something if you don’t want it enough to care if you win or lose.”

He closed the door and they both sat down, close to each other, and tried to think of something else to talk about while the minutes ticked away and the hour hand on the gold-faced clock crept towards ten, and then eleven.

It was growing very late. There should have been a result. Both of them were acutely aware of it, and trying not to say anything. Their conversation grew more and more stilted and sporadic.

Finally at twenty past eleven the door burst open and Jenkins stood there, his face flushed, his tongue stumbling over his words in wildly uncharacteristic emotion.

“S-sir—Mr. Radley. There is a recount, sir! They are nearly finished. The carriage is ready, and James will t-take you to the hall now. Ma’am …”

Jack shot to his feet and took a step forward before even thinking of reaching back for Emily, but she had also risen. Her legs weak with tension, she was only a yard behind him.

“Thank you,” Jack said a great deal less calmly than he had intended. “Yes, thank you. We’ll go.” He held out his hand towards Emily, then hurried to the front door without bothering to take his coat.

They rode in silence in the carriage, each craning forward as if they might see something, although there was nothing but the sweep of street lamps ahead of them and the moving lights of carriages as others hastened on this most tumultuous of nights.

At the hall where the ballots were being counted they alighted and with thumping hearts mounted the steps and went in the doors. Immediately a hush fell over at least half the assembled people. Faces turned, there was a buzz of excitement. Only the counters remained, heads bent, fingers flying through the sheaves of paper, stacks growing before them.

“Third time!” a little man hissed with unbearable tension in his voice.

Emily gripped Jack’s arm so tightly he winced, but she did not let go.

Over at the far end of the hall Nigel Uttley stood glowering, his face pale and strained. He still expected to win, but he had not foreseen that it would be close. He had thought to have an easy victory. His supporters were standing in anxious groups, huddled together, shooting occasional glances at the tables and the piles of papers.

Jack’s supporters also stood close, but they had not in honesty thought to win, and now the possibility was there and real. The die was cast, and they would know the verdict any moment.

Emily looked around to see how many people were here, and as her gaze passed from one group to another, she saw the light on coifs of gleaming silver hair on a proud head.

“Aunt Vespasia,” she burst out with astonishment and pleasure. “Look, Jack!” She pulled violently at his sleeve. “Great-Aunt Vespasia is here!”

He turned in surprise, and then his face broke into a smile of intense delight. He made his way over to her, pushing through the crowd.

“Aunt Vespasia! How very nice of you to have come!”

She turned and surveyed him with calm, amused eyes, but there was a flush of excitement in her cheeks.

“Of course I came,” she exclaimed. “Surely you did not think I would miss such an occasion?”

“Well it is … late,” he said in sudden embarrassment. “And I may well … not win.”

“Of course you may,” she agreed. “But either way, you have given him an excellent battle. He will know he has seen a fight.” She lifted her chin a little and there was a gleam of belligerence in her eyes.

Jack was about to add something when there was a sudden hush over the hall and everyone swung around to see the returning officer rise to his feet.

There followed a heart-lurching space while he went through all the formal preamble, waiting a moment, savoring all the drama and the power. Then he announced that by a margin of twelve votes, the member of Parliament for the constituency would be John Henry Augustus Radley.

Emily let out a squeal of sheer relief.

Jack gasped and then let out his breath in a long sigh.

Nigel Uttley stood stiff-lipped and unbelieving.

“Congratulations, my dear.” Aunt Vespasia turned to Jack and, reaching forward very gently, kissed him on the cheek. “You will do excellently.”

He blushed with self-conscious happiness and was too full of emotion to speak.

The party to celebrate the victory was held the following evening. It was a somewhat hasty affair since Emily had not prepared it with her usual care. She had not dared to believe it would be called for. Of course all those who had helped in the campaign were invited, with their wives, and those who had offered their support in his cause. Naturally his family were included, which was actually Emily’s family. Charlotte and Pitt accepted immediately. There was a charming note of congratulation from Caroline, but no word as to whether she would attend or not.

It began early as people arrived breathless with the thrill of victory. Voices were raised, faces flushed, and everyone talked at once, full of ideas and hopes of change.

“It’s only one new member,” Jack said, trying to appear modest and keep some sort of perspective to things. “It doesn’t change the government.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Emily agreed, standing very close to him and quite unable to take the enormous smile from her face. “But it is a beginning. It is a turning of the tide. Uttley is furious.”

“He most certainly is,” a large woman agreed cheerfully, balancing her glass of champagne in one hand, the enormous lace ruffles on her shoulders and sleeves endangering passersby. “Bertie says in spite of what the newspapers have been saying, he was taken completely by surprise. He really believed he was going to win.”

Bertie, who had only been paying half attention, now turned towards Jack with a serious expression on his benign face.

“Actually, old boy, he really was very put out indeed.” He bit into a petit four. “You have a nasty enemy there. I should be very careful of him if I were you.”

For a moment their conversation was obliterated by the sound of chatter, clinking glasses, a swish of fabric and slither of leather soles upon the floor.

“Oh really, my dear,” his wife responded as soon as she could make herself heard. “He must have considered the possibility of losing, surely? No one enters any competition without knowing someone has to lose.”

“Uttley did not believe it would be he.” Bertie leaned towards them, growing even graver. “And it is not merely losing a seat he believed was his in all but name. He has lost a great deal more, so I hear.”

His wife was confused. “What more? What are you talking about? Do explain yourself, my dear. You are not making sense.”

Bertie disregarded her and kept his eyes on Jack.

“There’s a great deal about it I don’t understand, powerful forces at work, if you know what I mean.” Bertie for once ignored his sparkling glass. “One hears whispers, if one is in the right place at the right time. There are people …” He hesitated, glancing at Emily, then back to Jack. “People behind the people one knows …”

Jack said nothing.

“Powerful forces?” Emily asked, then wished she had not. As a woman, she was not supposed to know about such things, still less at least half understand what he meant.

“Nonsense,” Bertie’s wife said briskly. “He lost because people preferred Jack. It’s as simple as that. Really, you are making a secret where there is none.”

“The people who voted obviously preferred Jack,” Bertie said patiently, sipping at his glass again. “But they were not the ones who blackballed Uttley from his club.” He looked at Jack meaningfully over his wife’s head. “Be careful, old fellow, that’s all. There’s something going on a great deal more than meets the eye. And those with the real power are not always whom one supposes.”

Jack nodded, his face grave, but the smile did not fade from his lips. “Now do have some more champagne. You surely deserve it as much as anyone.”

When everyone had been welcomed, thanked and congratulated and the toasts drunk, Emily at last made her way over to Charlotte.

“How are you?” she said quietly. “I haven’t even had time to ask you how everything went with the move. Is the new house comfortable? I know it’s beautiful.” She gave Charlotte’s deep green gown an admiring glance. It had the new accented shoulders with a very fine sweep of feathers and was highly becoming. “Have you got everything sorted out and in its right place yet?” And before Charlotte could answer, her expression changed. “What about the Headsman? Is it true Thomas arrested someone and then had to let him go again? Or is that nonsense?”

“No, it’s true,” Charlotte replied, equally softly, moving a little to keep her back to a group of excited celebrants near her. “After the butler’s murder he arrested Carvell, but one of his men found that Carvell could account for where he was when the omnibus conductor was killed, so he had to let him go.”

Emily looked surprised. “What made him think it was Carvell? I mean, enough to arrest him this time? That butler was a swine.” She said the word with uncharacteristic viciousness. “He could have had any number of enemies. If I had had to have anything to do with him I should have been sorely tempted myself.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Charlotte said dismissively. “He was rather bossy, and had a sneer built into his face.”

“He dismissed that girl for singing,” Emily protested with genuine anger. “That was brutal. He used his authority to humiliate other people, which is inexcusable. He was a bully. I wouldn’t have wished beheading on him, but since it has happened, I cannot say I grieve for him in the slightest.”

Pitt had joined them, carrying a plate of pastries and savories for Charlotte. He had obviously overheard the last remark. His face lit with a dry amusement.

“You are one person I had not suspected,” he said quietly. Then his expression changed to one of seriousness. “Congratulations, Emily. I am delighted for you both. I hope it is the beginning of a fine career.”

A burst of laughter drifted across the room, and someone called out with a loud cheer.

“Oh it will be,” Emily said with not so much conviction as determination. “Whom do you suspect?” she went on without hesitating. “Do you suppose the omnibus conductor could have nothing to do with it after all?”

“And someone else killed him?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

Emily shrugged her slender shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Charlotte took the plate from Pitt. “Perhaps he was an offensive little swine, like the one who put me off the omnibus the other day,” she said with sudden venom. “If someone had taken his head off I should not have grieved overmuch.”

Emily looked at her curiously, her expression one of complete bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh!” Charlotte pulled a face, hesitated whether to tell Emily or not, and realized the only way to deal with it was lightly. “The miserable little …” She could not think of a word sufficiently damning. The rage still boiled inside her, her memory scalding hot for its sheer humiliation.

Emily was waiting, even Pitt was looking at her with a sudden interest in his eyes, as if the story had taken on a new importance.

“Slug,” Charlotte said with tight lips. “He wouldn’t let me onto the omnibus because I had a bundle of cushions tied up in a sheet. He thought it was laundry!”

Emily burst into giggles. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized happily. “But I really …” The rest was lost as she chortled with delight, picturing it in her mind.

Charlotte could not let it go. “He was so self-important,” she said, still filled with indignation. “I would have given a great deal to have been able to squash him in some way or other.” She shook herself. “He was so beastly to the man who stood up and came to the back to try to assist me. Can you imagine that?” She glanced at Pitt, and saw from his face that he was lost in thought. “You aren’t listening, are you! You think it was ridiculous of me!”

A footman with a tray offered them savories and they each took one.

“No,” Pitt said slowly. “I think it is probably the sort of reaction most people would have. And you did what most people do….”

“I didn’t do anything,” she protested. “I wish now I had, but I couldn’t think of anything.”

“Exactly.” He agreed. “You came home fuming, but you did nothing.”

Emily was regarding him curiously.

“The omnibus conductor …” Charlotte said slowly, comprehension beginning to dawn. “Oh no—that’s absurd! Nobody chops—” She stopped.

A large lady brushed past them, her sleeves barely missing the pastries. Someone else laughed exuberantly.

“Maybe not.” Pitt frowned. “No, perhaps it is a foolish idea. I’m reaching after anything. There must be a better reason, something personal.” He turned to Emily. “But this is your celebration. Let’s talk about you and your victory. When does Jack take his seat? What is his maiden speech to be about, has he decided? I hope it is not for some time, if it is still about the police!”

Emily pulled a face, but she laughed, and the conversation moved to politics, the future, and Jack’s beliefs and hopes.

It was over an hour later when Charlotte was alone with Pitt for a few moments that she broached the subject of the Headsman again. In spite of her very real pleasure for Jack and Emily, she was beginning to realize just how serious the situation was for Pitt, and his new and now gravely threatened promotion.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked quietly, so the thin woman with the checked skirt and the enthusiastic voice a yard away could not hear her. Then as Pitt looked blank, she continued. “If it can’t be Carvell, who can it be?”

“I don’t know. Possibly Bart Mitchell. He certainly had every reason to kill Winthrop, and possibly Arledge, if he misunderstood his attention to Mina. But I can’t think of any reason for the bus conductor or Scarborough, unless they knew something…. He must be a very violent man. His experiences in Africa, easy life and death …” He trailed off, leaving the idea unfinished.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” She screwed up her face.

“It doesn’t seem very satisfactory,” he replied. He nodded to an acquaintance and continued talking. “Actually we haven’t found out his past movements, or the exact date of his return from Africa. Possibly he did not know of Winthrop’s nature until very recently. Obviously Mina is desperately ashamed and does all she can to conceal it. She seems to feel it is somehow her fault.” He frowned, his voice dropping and taking on a hard, angry edge. “I’ve seen women who have been beaten before. They all seem to take the blame on themselves. I can remember years ago, when I was a constable, being called in to fights, finding women bleeding and half dead, and still convinced it was their own fault and not the man’s. They’ve lost all hope, all worth or belief, even every shred of dignity. Usually it was drink … whiskey more often than not.”

She stared at him, visions of an unguessed and terrible world yawning open in front of her. She remembered Mina’s overwhelming shame, her diffidence, and how she had blossomed since Winthrop’s death. It seemed so obvious now, the only thing remarkable was why it had taken so long to reach its tragic climax.

“But it doesn’t really explain why he killed Arledge,” Pitt went on more thoughtfully. “Unless Mina knew he had killed Winthrop and somehow or other betrayed the fact to Arledge—unwittingly, of course.”

“That would make sense,” Charlotte said quickly. “Yes, that sounds as if it could have been. But then why the omnibus conductor and the butler? Or did the butler try his hand at blackmail of Carvell, thinking he killed Arledge, and so Carvell killed him to keep him quiet because he couldn’t prove his innocence?”

Pitt smiled. “A trifle farfetched,” he said ruefully. “But I’ve left poor Bailey looking into Carvell’s story about being at the concert. I want better proof than we have, something absolutely irrefutable.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“I don’t know.” He looked tired and confused. “Part of me does. My brain, I suppose.”

A group of excited people next to them raised their glasses in a toast. A woman in peach-colored lace was so exuberant her voice was becoming shrill.

“But not your heart?” Charlotte asked quietly, looking at Pitt.

He smiled. “It’s a trifle absurd to think with your heart. I should prefer instinct—which is probably just a collection of memories below the surface of recollection which form judgments for which we cannot readily produce a reason.”

“Very logical,” she agreed. “But it comes to the same thing. You don’t believe he did it, but you can’t be sure. Emily says that the butler, Scarborough, was an absolute pig. He dismissed that poor maid just because she was singing. The girl was beside herself. And what is so inexcusable is that he would know what losing a position would cost her. She may not be able to get another without a good character. She could starve!” Her voice was getting higher and higher with the distress of it, and her sense of outrage.

Pitt put his hand on her arm. “Didn’t you say Emily was going to offer her a position as housemaid or something?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point.” She was too outraged to be calm. “Scarborough couldn’t know that. And if Emily hadn’t happened to be there, then she wouldn’t have. The man was still a total pig.”

Pitt frowned, his face creased with thought. “He did it in public?”

She was obliged to move aside for a group of people laughing and talking.

“No—well, more or less,” she answered. “The corner of the room, over by that chair where Victor Garrick was sitting with his cello, waiting to play.”

“Oh. Yes, you are right,” he agreed. “The man was vicious and arbitrary. It doesn’t sound as if blackmail would be beyond him—”

They were interrupted by Emily in a swirl of apple-green silk embroidered with seed pearls.

“Mama still hasn’t come,” she said anxiously. “Do you suppose she is not going to? Really, it is too bad of her. She seems to think of no one but herself these days. I was so sure she would at least come to this, since Jack won.” She waved her hand to decline any more champagne, and the footman moved on.

“There’s time yet,” Pitt said, but with a twisted smile, and no belief in his voice.

Emily gave him a long look but said nothing.

Pitt excused himself and went to talk to Landon Hurlwood, who had been a supporter of Jack’s cause and had come to add his presence to the celebrations. He looked comfortable and relaxed, moving from group to group of people, full of vitality and optimism for the future. Under the chandeliers, the light gleamed on the pewter sheen of his hair.

“He’s been such a help to us,” Emily said, watching him greet Pitt with obvious pleasure. “A nice man. That is the happiest I have seen him look since his wife died, poor creature. She was ill for a long time, you know. Actually I never believed she was as ill as she must have been. She was one of those who made such a cause of it, it seemed she never spoke of anything else. Now it appears I wronged her, because she died of consumption, and I feel fearfully guilty.”

“So you should,” Charlotte agreed.

Emily glanced at her sharply. “You were not supposed to agree with me! Dead or not, she was still a most trying woman.”

“I expect he was fond of her, and she may not have been so tedious before she was ill,” Charlotte pointed out.

“You are being contrary,” Emily criticized, then suddenly became serious again. “Are you worried about Thomas? Surely they cannot expect him to solve every crime. There are bound to be some that are beyond anyone.”

“Of course.” Charlotte became serious also. “But they don’t see it like that. And I haven’t been of any use this time.” Her face tightened. “I don’t even know where to begin to look. I have been trying to think who it could be, if it is not Mr. Carvell.”

“So have I,” Emily agreed, lowering her voice. “More especially, I have been trying to imagine why. Just to say it is madness is not in the least helpful.”

Further discussion or conversation was prevented by a disturbance at the entrance to the room as people parted to allow the passage of an elderly person in black, leaning heavily on a stick.

“Grandmama!” Emily said in amazement. She looked immediately beyond her, expecting to see Caroline, but there was no one except a footman in livery holding someone’s cloak.

Both of them went forward to greet the old lady, who looked formidable in an old-fashioned dress with a huge bustle and a bodice heavily decorated with jet beading. There were jet earrings at her ears and an expression on her face only relieved from total ill temper by a dominating curiosity.

“How delightful to see you, Grandmama,” Emily said with as much enthusiasm as she could pretend. “I am so glad you were able to come.”

“Of course I came,” the old lady said instantly. “I must see what on earth you are doing now! A member of Parliament.” She snorted. “I’m not sure whether to be pleased or not. I’m not entirely certain if government is something respectable people do.” She looked around the room at the assembly, noting jewelry, the light glittering on the champagne glasses, the gleams of the silver trays and the number of footmen in livery. “A bit showy, isn’t it? Putting yourself forward is not really the act of a gentleman.”

“And whom should we be governed by?” Emily demanded, two spots of pink in her cheeks. “Men who are not gentlemen?”

“That is entirely different,” the old lady said, brushing logic aside. “Real gentlemen of the class to whom government comes naturally do not have to seek election. They have seats in the House of Lords by birth, as they should. Standing on boxes at street corners asking people to vote for you is another matter altogether, and really rather vulgar, if you ask me.”

Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“You are a little old-fashioned, Grandmama,” Charlotte said swiftly. “Mr. Disraeli was elected, and the Queen approved of him.”

“And Mr. Gladstone was elected, and she didn’t!” the old lady snapped with obvious pleasure.

“Which goes to show that being elected has nothing to do with it,” Charlotte replied. “Mr. Disraeli was also very clever.”

“And vulgar,” the old lady said, staring at Charlotte, her eyes glittering. “He wore the most dreadful waistcoats and talked far too much, and too often. No refinement at all. I met him once, you know. No, you didn’t know that, did you?”

“No.”

“As I said. Vulgar. Never knew when to hold his tongue. Thought he was amusing.”

“And wasn’t he?”

“Well—yes, I suppose so. But what has that to do with anything?”

Charlotte shot a look at Emily, and they both gave up on the subject.

“Where is Mama?” Charlotte asked, then immediately wished she had not.

Grandmama’s eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens, girl, how should I know? Tripping the light fantastic somewhere, no doubt She is quite mad.” She gazed at the whirl of color and chatter around them, the women with their more slender skirts and wide shoulders decorated with flounces, bows, frills or feathers, the heads with coils of hair, ornaments of diamante and pearl, plumes, pins, tiaras and flowers. “Who on earth are all these people?” she demanded of Emily. “I don’t know any of them. You had better introduce me. I shall tell you whom I wish to meet.”

She frowned. “And where is that husband of yours anyway? Why is he not by your side? I always said no good would come of marrying a man who is only after your money.” She swept Emily up and down with a derisory glance. “It is not as if you were a proper heiress; then it would be quite different. Your father would pick someone for you with a good family background. No one has ever heard of Jack Radley, indeed!”

“Well they will now, Mrs. Ellison.” Jack appeared from just beyond her field of vision, looking extraordinarily handsome and smiling at her as if he were delighted to see her.

She had the grace to blush, and grunted something inaudible. Then she glared at Charlotte. “You might have told me he was there, fool!” she hissed.

“I didn’t know you were going to be so offensive, or I might have,” Charlotte whispered back.

“What? Don’t mumble, girl. I can’t hear you. For Heaven’s sake, speak clearly. Your mother paid enough to have you taught elocution and deportment when you were young. She should have kept her money.” And with that she smiled at Jack. “Congratulations, young man. I hear you have won something.”

“Thank you.” He bowed, offering her his arm. “May I take you and introduce you to some interesting people who would no doubt like to meet you?”

“You may,” she accepted, head high. Without a backward glance, she twitched her skirt around and sailed off, leaving Charlotte and Emily alone.

“If someone had taken her head off, I would understand it,” Emily said under her breath.

“I don’t think I should turn him in,” Charlotte added. Then slowly she swiveled to face Emily just as the same thought was reflected in Emily’s eyes.

“Do you really think …” Emily began. “No,” she said, answering her own question, but without conviction. “Do you suppose there is someone who knows who it is? Would anyone protect …”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied slowly. “I suppose if it were someone you loved—a husband or father?” A haze of ugly and frightening thoughts filled her mind. “But how could you bear to believe that anyone you loved could do such things? It wouldn’t be simply their guilt, you would feel as if it were part of yourself. You can’t be separate, as if their acts or their nature in no way touched you. If they had done it, had lost their minds to madness, it would be as if you were touched with it too.”

“No it wouldn’t!” Emily contradicted her. “You couldn’t blame—”

“It may not be fair,” Charlotte went on, cutting across her, “but that is how you would feel. Weren’t you embarrassed when your friends commented on Mama being seen with Joshua?”

“Yes. But that’s—” Emily stopped, realization flooding her face. “Yes, of course,” she said quickly. “And that’s nothing, beside this. I see what you mean. One would feel as if one had contributed to it, even if by sheer ignorance of something terribly, hideously wrong. One would fight against believing it to the very last, unarguable fact.” Her face crumpled with pity. “How truly appalling.”

“I suppose it could conceivably be Mina,” Charlotte said slowly. “She might protect her brother, especially if he killed Winthrop to protect her.”

“I can’t think who else,” Emily was thinking aloud. “Mr. Carvell hasn’t a wife, and no one knows anything about the omnibus conductor.”

“Do you suppose Mrs. Arledge might know anything?” Charlotte asked dubiously, half hating herself for speaking ill, even by suggestion, of Dulcie. Pitt so obviously admired her, and with excellent cause. It seemed small-minded to raise her name in this connection.

“Such as what?” Emily asked. “I doubt she has the faintest idea who killed Arledge, or she would have told Thomas, to get the matter cleared up and get the police out of her house. Then she could continue with her life discreetly.”

Charlotte stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘discreetly’? You sound as if you thought she had something to hide.”

“Oh Charlotte, at times you are obtuse,” Emily said with a patient smile. “Dulcie has an admirer, or maybe more than that. Haven’t you seen?”

Charlotte was taken completely by surprise.

“No! Who is it? Are you sure? How could you know?”

“I don’t know who it is, but I know he exists. It’s obvious.” Emily shook her head a little. “Haven’t you looked at her, I mean really looked?”

“At what?”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Charlotte!” Emily said exasperatedly. “At the way she dresses, the little touches, the dainty mourning brooch, the lace, the perfect fit of her gown around the waist and the fashionable sleeves set with the point at the shoulder. And she wears a beautiful perfume. She walks as if she knows people are watching her. And even when she is not speaking to anyone there is a …”—she shrugged—“… a sort of composure about her, as if she knew something special and secret, and very delicious. Really, Charlotte, if you don’t know a woman in love when you see one, you are a useless detective. In fact, even as a woman you are extraordinarily unintelligent.”

“I thought it was …” Charlotte protested.

“What?”

“I don’t know … courage?”

Emily smiled and nodded at an acquaintance who had campaigned for Jack, then continued urgently. “I don’t doubt she has courage too, but that doesn’t give anyone that inner satisfaction, it doesn’t make you smile for no reason, and glance at yourself in mirrors, and always look your very best, just in case you run into him.”

Charlotte stared at her. “How did you observe her so much? I only saw her at the Requiem.”

“You don’t need to see anyone very much to notice that. What were you thinking of that you didn’t see?”

Charlotte blushed, remembering what her feelings had been. “I wonder if it matters,” she said, changing the subject.

“Of course it doesn’t matter,” Emily replied, then stopped. “What are you talking about? Does what matter?”

“Who it is, of course!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Emily, do you think—I mean …”

“Yes,” Emily said instantly, not even noticing an elderly man who was trying to attract her attention. He gave up and moved away. “We must find out,” she continued. “I don’t know how, but we must discover who it is.”

“Do you suppose it could be Bart Mitchell? Maybe that is the connection Thomas is looking for.”

“Tomorrow morning we shall begin,” Emily promised. “I shall think about what to do, and so can you.”

They were interrupted, before the quite unnecessary ending could be added, by Caroline and Joshua arriving, both dressed very formally and looking excited and happy.

“Oh thank goodness,” Emily said with immense relief. “I really thought she was not going to come.” She moved forward to welcome her mother, and Charlotte came immediately behind her.

“Congratulations, my dear,” Caroline said ebulliently, kissing Emily on the cheek. “I am delighted for you. I am sure Jack will be magnificent, and there is certainly much to be done. Where is he?”

“Over there, talking to Sir Arnold Maybury,” Emily replied. She looked at Joshua’s charming, mobile face with its very slightly crooked nose and wry smile. “I’m glad you came too. Jack will be very pleased.”

“Of course he came too,” Caroline said with an odd little smile. Then she turned and looked up at Joshua, her face flushed and suddenly self-conscious.

This time it was Charlotte who noticed, and Emily who was unaware.

“Mama?” Charlotte said slowly. “What do you mean?”

Emily looked at her, frowning. It sounded such a foolish question. She was about to make some impatient remark, then she realized she had missed a nuance, something far more important than the words. She waited, turning to Joshua, then Caroline.

Caroline took a deep breath and looked at neither of her daughters.

“Joshua and I have just been married,” she replied very quietly, in little more than a whisper.

Emily was thunderstruck.

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something generous and congratulatory, and found her throat aching and her eyes ridiculously filling with tears.

Joshua put his arm around Caroline. He was still smiling, but there was a strength in his eyes, and a warning.

Jack returned with Grandmama still on his arm, a glass of champagne in her hand. He saw that he had entered a scene of high emotional tension. He turned to Joshua.

“Congratulations,” Joshua said quietly, holding out his hand and taking Jack’s. “It is a fine victory, and will bode well for all of us. I wish you a long and successful career.” He smiled. “For our sakes as well as yours.”

“Thank you.” Jack let go his hand and reached for a glass from a passing footman. He held it up. “To the future.”

Grandmama lifted her glass to her lips also.

“Everybody’s future,” Emily added, looking at Jack. “Mama and Joshua’s too. We must also congratulate them and wish them every happiness.”

Jack’s eyes opened wide.

“They have just been married,” Emily added.

Grandmama, halfway through a gulp of champagne, choked on it, blowing a mouthful over half the front of her dress. Her black eyes were furious, her face flushed with shock and outrage. However, it was impossible to be dignified while dribbling copiously. Emily reached for Jack’s pocket handkerchief and, mopping her up, only made it considerably worse. Grand-mama then took the only avenue of retreat open to her and sank in a faint to the floor, almost pulling Jack down with her.

Instantly she was the center of all attention. No one any longer looked at Joshua and Caroline, or even at Jack. People rushed from all surrounding groups.

“Oh dear! The poor lady,” one man said, aghast at the sight of Grandmama in a heap on the floor. “We must help her. Somebody! Salts!”

“Has she been taken ill?” someone else asked anxiously. “Should we send for a doctor?”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Emily reassured her. “I’ll just burn a feather under her nose.” She looked for a footman to fetch such an article.

“Poor creature.” The woman looked at Grandmama’s recumbent form with pity. “To be taken ill in public, and so far from one’s own home.”

“She’s not ill,” Emily contradicted her.

“She’s drunk,” Charlotte added with sudden, quite inexcusable, malice. She was furious with the old woman’s utter selfishness in robbing Caroline of being the center of attention and happiness at this, of all moments. She glared down and saw the old lady click her teeth with rage, and felt acute satisfaction.

“Oh!” The other lady’s sympathy vanished and she moved a step or two away, revulsion altering her face entirely.

“You’d better carry her out,” Charlotte added to Jack. “One of the footmen will help you. Put her somewhere so she can recover, and then someone will take her home.”

“Not I,” Caroline said firmly. “Anyway, I’m not going home. This is my wedding night.”

“Of course not you,” Charlotte agreed immediately, then turned to Emily.

“Oh no!” Emily backed away, her face aghast.

The footman returned with a feather already smoldering, and offered it to Emily. She thanked him and took it with relish, holding it close under Grandmama’s nose. She breathed in, coughed violently, and remained stubbornly on the floor with eyes closed.

Jack and the footman bent to pick up the still-recumbent form of the old lady. It was extremely awkward. She was short and heavy, and a dead weight. It took all their strength to get her up, with her skirts in order, and begin to move her through the crowd towards the doorway. Even so, as she passed Charlotte, she managed to lash out with her foot and very nearly land a swift kick on Charlotte’s elbow.

“She won’t stay under the same roof with me when I come home,” Caroline said distinctly. “She has sworn never to abide with me if I disgrace myself and make myself a public laughingstock.” She looked at Emily. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I think it is you who is going to have to offer her a home. Charlotte has no room.”

“Even if I had,” Charlotte replied. “If she weren’t going to live with an actor, she certainly won’t live with a policeman. Thank God!”

“I can see that winning the election is a very double-edged victory,” Emily said gloomily. “I suppose Ashworth House is big enough to lose her—most of the time. Oh Mama! I wish you every happiness—but did you have to do this to me?”

Sammy Cates enjoyed getting up early. The first hours of the new day were clear and full of promise, and very often solitude as well. It was not that he disliked people, but he enjoyed his own company, and time to let his mind wander in any imagination or dream he fancied was the best entertainment he knew. Last night he had been to the music hall. It had been Marie Lloyd, outrageously dressed and singing marvelous songs. Even now he smiled at the memory of it.

He walked with a swing in his step along the quiet street where he lived in two rooms with his wife and children and his father-in-law, and out onto the main thoroughfare, which was already busy with carts and barrows going to market or delivering goods early to the large houses closer to the park. He passed this way every morning, and many people called out to him or waved a hand. He nodded or waved back, but his mind was still on yesterday evening.

He walked quickly, because he must be at the park gates in time to make sure all was well, there was no litter, no untidiness to offend the eye. And then he would begin his duties for the day. Sweeping, weeding, trimming were not especially enjoyable in themselves, but then on the other hand, neither were they particularly onerous. But it was being outside in the sun, and at this hour, the perfect solitude, which kept the smile on his face as he crossed Park Lane and entered the gates.

It was a bright day, but the dew was a heavy sheen over the grass and the leaves were wet on the bushes. There now. Some untidy person had left a bottle on the path. What a thoughtless thing to do. It could have got broken and then there would be shards of glass all over the place. Who knew what injury that would do? Especially to a child.

He walked over to it and bent to pick it up.

It was when he was thus contorted that he saw the foot sticking out of the undergrowth, and then the leg, and the sole of the other shoe where it lay at a different angle.

He let go of the bottle and moved over to the bushes. He gulped hard. Most probably it was someone who had drunk too much, but then there was always the other possibility. Ever since the first corpse had been found, he had been afraid of it, but still he had never really expected it to happen.

Gingerly, with his heart beating violently and his mouth dry, he grasped both the legs by the ankles and pulled.

The man was wearing dark trousers, navy or black, but they were damp from the dew and it was hard to tell. Then his body began to emerge, and Sammy was so appalled he dropped him and staggered back. He was a policeman! The uniform tunic and its silver buttons were unmistakable.

“Oh Gawd!” he moaned. This was no drunk. This was the Headsman’s work again! “Oh Gawd!” he sobbed. Perhaps he should not have moved him. Maybe they would blame him for it.

He backed away and fell over the bottle, sitting down very hard on the stony ground, which knocked out of him what little breath he had left.

He looked at the awful object again. Yes, he was definitely a rozzer. He could see the gleam of buttons all the way up to his neck.

On his hands and knees, he crawled back to the body, and without any clear decision in his mind, began to pull it again. It emerged from the bushes slowly, waist, chest, neck—head! Head! He was whole!

Sammy fell backwards in a heap, his hands shaking, his stomach lurching with relief. Stupid man! He should not have let his imagination do that to him. Headsman indeed! Suppose a rozzer could get drunk like anyone else?

He got up and then bent over the man to see just how drunk he was. His face was terribly pale, in fact his skin was almost white. As though he were dead!

“Oh Gawd!” he said again, this time in a low moan. Reluctantly he touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was cold. He felt his own stomach sick. He loosened the man’s collar and slid his hand down inside his clothes. The flesh was warm! He was alive! Yes—please God he was alive!

He studied the face for a few moments, but he could see no sign of a flicker in the eyelids. If he was breathing, it was too shallow to see.

There was nothing to do but go and find help. The man needed a doctor. He rose to his feet and hurried off, starting at a fast walk, and then changing his mind and running.

“What?” Pitt looked up from his desk as Tellman stood in front of him, his face grim, and yet with a perverse glint of victory in his eyes.

“Bailey,” Tellman repeated. “One of the park keepers found him this morning, about six o’clock. Been hit on the head and left under the bushes.” His eyes met Pitt’s unwaveringly.

Pitt felt ill. It was an agonizing mixture of pity and guilt.

“How badly is he hurt?” he said with dry lips.

“Hard to say,” Tellman replied. “He’s still senseless. Could be anything.”

“Well, what injuries has he?” Pitt heard his voice, rough and with a note of panic undisguisable.

“Doesn’t appear anything except hit on the head,” Tellman answered.

“Anyone know what happened?”

“No. Except, of course, common sense says it was the Headsman. He wasn’t on duty in the park, or anywhere near it. He was still chasing after Carvell’s statement that he was at the concert, where you sent him.” Still his eyes did not flicker from Pitt’s. “Looks as though he may have found something after all.”

There was no possible answer to that. Pitt rose to his feet. “Where is he?”

“They took him to the Samaritan Free Hospital, in Manchester Square. It’s only half a mile or so from where he was found.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Do you want me to arrest Carvell again?”

“Not until I have seen Bailey.”

“He can’t tell you anything.”

Pitt did not bother to reply, but walked past Tellman without looking at him, and ignoring his hat and coat, went out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time, passed the desk without speaking and went out. It took him nearly five minutes to find a hansom and direct it to Manchester Square.

He felt wretched. There was now no longer any reasonable doubt that it was Carvell. It was Carvell’s presence, or absence, at the concert Bailey had been checking. But the thought hurt. He had liked Carvell, felt an instinctive respect for him and a sympathy with his grief, which he still believed was real. And just as deep was his disillusion with himself, an awful sense of failure because he had been so deceived. His judgment had been fatally flawed.

He was guilty of Bailey’s injury, and if he died, of his death.

How could he have been so stupid, so unaware? And even now, riding along in the hansom, he still could not see it plainly, only the evidence made it no longer escapable.

The hansom stopped and he alighted, telling the driver to wait for him. Inside he found the long ward where Bailey was lying stiff, white-faced and motionless. He was dressed in a rough calico nightshirt and covered with a sheet and a gray blanket. By the side of his cot stood a young doctor, frowning and pursing his lips.

“How is he?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.

The doctor looked at him wearily. “Who are you?”

“Superintendent Pitt, Bow Street. How is he?”

“Hard to say.” The doctor shook his head. “Hasn’t stirred since they brought him in, but he’s warmed up to a decent temperature at last. His breathing is near normal and his heart is beating quite strongly.”

“He’ll be all right?” It was more a hope than a belief.

“Can’t say. Possibly.”

“When might he be able to speak?”

The doctor shook his head, and looked up at Pitt at last. “I can’t say, Superintendent. Can’t even say for sure that he will. And even if he does, he may not remember anything. Could be in a very poor state of mind. You’ll have to be prepared for that. I would go on with your investigation without relying on him, if I were you.”

“I see. Do everything you can for him, won’t you? Don’t worry about the cost.”

“Of course.”

Pitt left feeling even more wretched and discouraged, and acutely guilty.

He arrived back at Bow Street to find Giles Farnsworth in his office, his face pale, his hands clenched by his sides.

“You let Carvell go again,” he said between his teeth. “Now he has as near as dammit murdered one of your own men.” He paced to the mantelpiece and turned. “I always feared this job was too big for you, but Drummond was adamant. Well, he was wrong. Worst misjudgment of his career. I’m sorry Pitt, but your incompetence is not acceptable.”

He crossed the floor again and swung back.

“You are dismissed. You will complete the background work on this case, then return to your previous rank. You’d better move to another station. I’ll think which one when I have time. Maybe somewhere on the outskirts.” And without waiting for Pitt to reply, he went to the door. He hesitated with his hand on the knob. “I’ve told Tellman to arrest Carvell again. They should have him by now. You can start to arrange the evidence ready for the trial. When you have finished that, you can take a few days off. Good day.” He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving Pitt alone, guilty and totally wretched.