Hyde Park Headsman

11

CHARLOTTE WAS DEVASTATED when Pitt told her that he had been dismissed. Perhaps she should have realized more fully how real was the possibility, but her mind had been too filled with other things: the new house, and of course selling the old one, Jack’s candidacy, Caroline’s love affair, now her marriage. She had never really believed this would happen—it was so unjust!

Her heart sank for him, for his pain and humiliation, but she was furious for the unfairness of it. Then lastly she was afraid for herself and her children. What about the new house now? How would they afford it? And the old house was gone, they could not simply move back.

All these thoughts and emotions raged through her and she knew they must show in her face. She had never been good enough at concealing her feelings, but she did all she could to hide them, even as the blood drained from her cheeks and her stomach went sick and cold.

“We’ll manage,” was all she contrived to say, and her voice was rasping, her mouth was so dry.

Pitt looked at her, his own face pale, his eyes hurt and tired.

“Of course we will,” he said gently, although he had no idea yet how. The thought of going back to work as an inspector again, in some other station miles away, was too bitter to do more than hear and turn away from until the reality of it forced itself upon him and he had to come to terms with it. Perhaps he would be able to persuade Farnsworth at least to make it at Central London station, so he could work in the area he knew and not spend half his time going backwards and forwards on omnibuses. He would not be able to afford a hansom.

For some time they both sat in silence, close together. Words would not help. There was nothing comforting to say except the banalities they had clearly both thought of, and dismissed.

At last Charlotte moved a little and sat more upright. She had lit the parlor fire, not because it was cold but because the flicker of the flames was comforting, creating briefly a little island from the rest of the world.

“Did Carvell finally admit it?” she asked.

“No.” His mind was suddenly filled with the image of Carvell’s wretched face, white and frightened, as he was taken down to the cells, his eyes meeting Pitt’s in an abject plea. “No, he denied it passionately.”

Charlotte stared at him.

“You believe him, don’t you?” she said after a moment or two. “You still don’t really think he did it!”

He sat still for several moments before replying. His face was crumpled with confusion, but there was no wavering in his voice when at last he answered.

“No. No, I can’t believe he would willingly have hurt Aidan Arledge. And if he had killed him in a fit of blind passion and rage, I think he would be a broken man afterwards, and not even attempt to escape. In fact, I honestly believe if he had done it, he would accept, even welcome, punishment.”

“Then you’ve got to find out who did do it, Thomas! You can’t let him be hanged for it!” She knelt in front of him earnestly, her voice strong, full of entreaty. “There must be something. No matter how clever he is, the Headsman will have left something undone, some thread that if we pull at it, carefully, we’ll unravel the truth.”

“That’s a nice thought,” he said, smiling at her. “But I’ve racked my brains to think of what that could be, and I’m no further forward.”

“You are too close to it,” she said immediately. “You are looking at the details, instead of the overall picture. What have all the victims in common?”

“Nothing,” he said simply.

“They must have! Winthrop and Scarborough were both bullies, and you said that the omnibus conductor was an officious little man. Perhaps he was a bully too.”

“But Arledge wasn’t. By every account he was a most courteous and gentle man.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at him dubiously.

“Yes, I am sure. No one at all had anything ill to say of him.”

She thought for a moment, and he waited in silence.

“Is it possible all but one were killed simply to hide the one that someone really wanted dead?” she said after several moments. “Maybe the others were random, and it didn’t matter who they were.”

“Doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head, putting out his hand to push away a stray strand of her hair which had fallen across her brow. “Scarborough was lured out of his own home to be killed. That’s hardly random. Yeats was miles away in Shepherd’s Bush, Arledge we don’t know, and Winthrop was boating on the Serpentine, which in itself is ridiculous. Why would anyone go boating in the middle of the night? No one would do it with a stranger, and even with a friend it is hard to imagine.”

“The Headsman wanted him there so he could kill him over the side,” she answered.

“But how would he get him there? How would you persuade someone to get into a boat in the middle of the night?”

She drew in her breath. “Ah—I should—I should say I had dropped something in the water, off a bridge or something, and if I did not retrieve it, it would be lost,” she said with satisfaction. “I should first have dropped in my hat, or whatever came to mind.”

“Hat!” He sat upright, unintentionally knocking her sideways.

“What?” She scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Thomas?”

“Hat,” he repeated. “There was a hat found when we dragged it! It wasn’t Winthrop’s. We didn’t connect it, but that’s what it could have been. Put there as a reason to lure him into the boat. You are brilliant! It’s so simple, and so effective.” He kissed her with enthusiasm, and then stood up and began to pace the floor. “It begins to make sense,” he went on, his voice rising with excitement. “Winthrop was a naval man. It might be quite natural to appeal to him to assist in getting to the hat before it sank. The Headsman could quite easily affect to be useless with the oars. Many people are.”

He waved his arms eloquently. “He would request Winthrop’s assistance. Winthrop would naturally give it. They would both get into the boat—and the next thing the Headsman points to something in the water, Winthrop leans over the side—and …” He brought down his arms with his hand stiff like a blade. “Winthrop is beheaded.”

“What about the others?” she asked. “What about Arledge?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know where Arledge was killed.”

“But Scarborough? And the omnibus conductor?” she persisted.

“Scarborough was killed on Rotten Row, right where he was found. The horse trough was full of blood.”

“And Yeats?”

“Near Shepherd’s Bush terminal. Then taken in a gig to Hyde Park.”

She thought for a moment. “Makes it look as if Arledge was the one that was most important, doesn’t it,” she said at last. “Except that he wasn’t first. Every time I think it makes sense”—she shrugged, sitting back again—“then it doesn’t.”

“I know.” He stopped and held out his hand. “Enough for now. I’ll start again tomorrow. Come to bed.”

She took his hand and stood up slowly, but her face was still tight in concentration. Even when walking up the stairs her mind was working, turning over ideas, beginning plans. Only when she was in her nightgown and pulling the sheets up around her neck and snuggling closer to Pitt did she finally forget it and think of other things.

In the morning Pitt did not go to Bow Street; there was no point. His mind was whirling with ideas, uncertain, many of them half formed and depending upon facts and impressions he had yet to confirm. He could not serve his purpose by starting until the evening. He spent the day in trivial duties, checking and rechecking of details. Then at a quarter to eight he began. He wanted to see Victor Garrick, but did not have his address. He knew Mina Winthrop would know it, accordingly he took the omnibus to Curzon Street and alighted on the pavement in the clear spring dusk.

“Yes sir?” the parlormaid said inquiringly.

“May I please speak with Mrs. Winthrop?” he asked courteously.

“Yes sir. If you care to come this way, I shall see if she is at home.”

It was the usual polite fiction, and he followed her in and waited obediently. Mina came after less than five minutes, looking charming in pale lavender muslin. As soon as she saw his surprise she blinked.

“Good evening, Superintendent. I am afraid you have caught me unexpectedly. I am not suitably dressed.” It was an understatement. She looked years younger than when he had seen her immediately after her husband’s death, dressed entirely in black and looking frightened and bewildered. Now her cheeks had color, her long, slender neck was bare but for a heavy bead necklace, and only because he knew it was there could he see the faintest purpling of bruises. To anyone else they would merely have seemed shadows. There was a spontaneity in her movement, as if she were full of purpose.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you at all, Mrs. Winthrop,” he apologized in turn. “I came because I wished to call upon Victor Garrick and I do not know his address, except that it is close by here.”

“Oh! Well it is fortunate you have come,” she said quickly. “They are two doors away, but you would have had a wasted journey anyway. He is presently with us.”

“Indeed. Would it be too much of an intrusion for me to speak with him? I will not detain him long.”

“Of course not. I am sure if there is anything he can do to help he would be happy to.” She frowned. “Although I understand from my brother that you have caught the man. What more can there be?”

“Some details to learn, so we are not taken unaware by a clever lawyer,” he replied untruthfully.

“Then please come through to the garden room, Superintendent. Victor has been playing for us, and it will be a most pleasant place to sit.”

He thanked her and accepted willingly, following her as she turned and led the way along the passage and into one of the most charming rooms he had ever seen. French windows opened straight into a small walled garden filled with plants with every shape of leaf. All the flowers were white: white roses, plantain lilies, carnations and pinks, alyssum, Solomon’s seal, and many others of which he did not know the names.

Inside, the walls and curtains were green with a delicate white floral print, and a large bowl was filled with further white flowers. The last of the gentle evening light shone in, making the room warm and still giving the illusion of the freshness of a garden.

In the corner Victor Garrick sat with his cello. Bart Mitchell stood by the mantelpiece. There was no one else present.

“Victor, I am so sorry to interrupt,” Mina began. “But Superintendent Pitt has actually come to see you. It seems there are some further details yet to clear up in this wretched business, and he thinks you may be able to help.”

“Perhaps we should excuse ourselves.” Bart moved as if to leave.

“Oh no,” Pitt said hastily. “Please, Mr. Mitchell, I should be glad if you would both remain. It would save me having to ask you all separately.” An idea was beginning to form in his mind, although still hazy and lacking many essential elements. “I am sorry to disturb your music on such a distressing matter, but I think we are really close to the end at last.”

Bart moved back to the mantel shelf and resumed his position leaning against it, his expression cold. “If you wish, Superintendent, but I don’t think any of us knows anything we have not already told you.”

“It is a matter of what you may have seen.” Pitt turned to Victor, who was watching him with his clear, very blue eyes wide and apparently more polite than interested.

“Yes?” he said, since the silence seemed to call for some remark.

“At the reception after the Requiem service for Aidan Arledge,” Pitt began, “I believe you were sitting in the corner alcove near the doorway to the hall?”

“Yes. I didn’t especially wish to wander around talking to people,” Victor agreed. “And anyway, it is far more important to stay with my cello. Someone might accidentally bump it, or even knock it over.” Unconsciously his arms tightened around the precious instrument, caressing its exquisite wood, which was smooth as satin and as bright. Pitt noticed the bruise and felt a stab of fury at the vandalism.

“Is that how that happened?” he asked.

Victor’s face tightened and his skin went suddenly white. His eyes were hard and very bright, staring fixedly at some spot in the far distance, or perhaps within his own memory.

“No,” he said between his teeth.

“What was it?” Pitt pressed, and found himself holding his own breath. He did not realize that the pain in the palms of his hands was his nails digging into the flesh.

“Some vile creature pushed me, and it knocked against the handrail,” Victor answered in a soft voice, his gaze still far away.

“The handrail?” Pitt questioned.

“Yes.”

Bart Mitchell shifted his position away from the mantel and opened his mouth to interrupt, then changed his mind.

“Of an omnibus?” Pitt said, almost in a whisper.

“What?” Victor looked around at him. “Oh—yes. People like that have … nothing inside them—no feeling—no souls!”

“It’s a senseless piece of vandalism,” Pitt agreed, swallowing hard and stepping back a little. “What I wanted to ask you, Mr. Garrick, was if you saw the butler, Scarborough, when he was directing the other servants that afternoon?”

“Who?”

“The butler, Scarborough.”

Victor still looked blank.

“A big man with a haughty face and arrogant manner.”

Victor’s eyes filled with comprehension and memory. “Oh yes. He was a bully, a contemptible man.” He winced at Pitt as he said it. “It is beyond forgiveness to use one’s power to abuse those who are in no position to defend themselves. I abhor it, and the people who do such things are …” He sighed. “I have no words for it. I search my mind and nothing comes which carries the weight of the anger I feel.”

“Did he actually dismiss the girl for singing?” Pitt asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Victor raised his eyes and stared at him.

Pitt waited.

“Yes,” Victor said at length. “She was singing a little love song, quite softly, just a sad little thing about losing someone. He dismissed her without even listening to her explanation or apology.” His face was even whiter as he spoke and his lips were bloodless. “She cannot have been more than sixteen.” His whole body was tight, and he sat hunched, only his hands still gentle on the cello.

“Mrs. Radley heard it too,” Pitt said, not as any part of his plan, but spontaneously, from pity. “She offered the girl a position. She won’t be out on the street.”

Slowly Victor turned to gaze at him, his eyes softened, very bright blue, and the anger drained out of him.

“Did she?”

“Yes. She is my sister-in-law, and I know it is true.”

“And the man is dead,” Victor added. “So that’s all right.”

“Was that all you wanted to ask?” Bart said, stepping forward. “I saw nothing, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did my sister.”

“Oh, almost,” Pitt replied, looking not at him but at Mina. “The other matter was concerning Mr. Arledge.” He altered the tone of his voice to be deliberately harsher. “You told me before, Mrs. Winthrop, that your acquaintance with him was very slight, only a matter of a single kindness on one occasion when you were distressed over the death of a pet.”

She swallowed and hesitated. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I do not believe you.”

“We have told you what happened, Superintendent,” Bart said grimly. “Whether you accept it or not, I am afraid that is all there is. You have the Headsman. There is no purpose whatever in your persisting in a matter which is peripheral at best.”

Pitt ignored him.

“I think you knew him considerably better than that,” he said to Mina. “And I do not believe the matter that distressed you was the death of a pet.”

She looked pale, and distinctly uncomfortable.

“My brother has already told you what happened, Superintendent. I have nothing to add to that.”

“I know Mr. Mitchell told me, ma’am. What I wonder is why you did not tell me yourself! Is it that you are not quite so quick with a lie? Or perhaps you did not think of one in time?”

“Sir, you are being gratuitously offensive.” Bart moved closer to Pitt, as if he would offer him physical violence. His voice was low and dangerous. “I must ask you to leave this house. You are no longer welcome here.”

“Whether I am welcome or not is a matter of complete indifference,” Pitt answered, still facing, not Bart, but Mina. “Mrs. Winthrop, if I were to ask your servants, would they bear out your story of a domestic pet’s death?”

Mina looked very white and her hands were shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her lips were dry.

“Mrs. Winthrop,” he said grimly, hating the necessity for this. “We know that your husband beat you—”

Her head jerked up, her face white with horror. “Oh no, no!” she said involuntarily. “It was … accidental … he … it was my own fault. If I were less clumsy, less stupid … I provoked him by …” She trailed off, staring at Bart.

Victor looked at Mina, his eyes wide and hard, waiting.

“It is not your fault!” Bart said between his teeth. “I don’t care a damn how stupid or persistent or argumentative you were! Nothing justifies—”

“Bart!” Her voice rose close to a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! It was nothing! He never intended to hurt me! You misunderstand all of it. Oakley wasn’t … cruel. It was the whiskey. He just …”

Victor looked at Mina’s terror, and at Bart, white-faced and torn with indecision.

“Didn’t it hurt?” he asked very gently.

“No, no Victor dear, it was all over very quickly,” she assured him. “Bart is just a little”—she hesitated—“protective of me.”

“That’s not true!” Victor’s voice was thick, almost choking. “It hurts—it frightens! It’s in your face! You were terrified of him. And he made you feel ashamed all the time, and worthless …”

“No! No, that’s not true. He didn’t mean it. And I am all right, I promise you!”

“Because the swine is dead!” Bart spat. He was about to add something more, but he got no further. Mina burst into tears, her shoulders hunched over as dry sobs racked her and she sank onto the sofa. Bart strode forward, almost knocking Victor out of the way, and took Pitt roughly by the arm, propelling him towards the door. Victor remained immobile.

In the hallway Pitt made no protest, and a few moments later, feeling the bruises of Bait’s fingers on his arm a trifle tenderly, he walked along the footpath towards the main thoroughfare. It was a clear evening, and still just light. He was not expecting anything to happen for some time.

He spent a tense fifteen minutes taking a glass of cider in a public house, then continued his way as the cloud cover grew heavier and the daylight dimmed. It was some time before he was sure he was being followed. At first it was only a sensation, a consciousness of a sound which echoed his footsteps, stopping when he did, resuming when he did.

By the time he reached Marylebone Road it was dark, and he had great difficulty in not increasing his speed. It was an odd, prickling feeling, and most unpleasant. If he were correct in his guesses, tenuous as they were, built on impressions and a few threads of tangible, definite evidence, then it was the Headsman who was now behind him, watching, coming closer, waiting his chance. He would have the weapon with him. He would have taken it from its hiding place and left the house, hurrying to catch up.

In spite of his resolution to appear natural, he could not keep his step from hastening. He heard the rapid, slightly uneven tap, tap of his boots on the pavement, and behind him, closer now, the echoing feet, swift and light, of his follower.

Marylebone Road turned into the Euston Road. A landau passed him, carriage lamps yellow, horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. He was walking now as fast as he could without actually running. The lamplighter was passing, tipping his long pole to each wick and one by one they sprang to life, a row of brilliant isolated globes, between which stretched areas of darkness, hiding passersby, people on their way home, weary from the day or expectant of the evening. He saw the tall outline of a stovepipe hat against the light as a man hurried by.

Euston station was only a hundred yards ahead. He could feel the sweat of fear on his body and he was breathing hard, even though he still had not quite broken from a walk.

The steps were closer behind him.

He dare not force a confrontation here. Until he was actually attacked, there was no proof. All his bullying of Mina would have been to no purpose.

He turned into the entrance of the railway station. It was late and there were few people about. The chill air of evening after the warm day had turned misty. In the clatter of trains and the shout of porters, the whistles and hoots, the hiss of steam, he could no longer hear footsteps behind him.

On the platform he turned. There was a porter; an elderly gentleman with a document case; a woman with hair that looked black in the dim light, and a shawl around her shoulders; a young man half in the shadows, seemingly waiting for someone. Another, older woman came in, looking anxiously about her.

Pitt walked across the platform then turned and went along its length towards the bridge over the tracks. He climbed up; the steps were slippery. He heard his boots clattering on the metal edges of each rise. Clouds of steam billowed up into the gathering mist and slight drizzle. The platform lights were a jumble of harsh, gleaming globes, swimming in the closing night and the gray rain, the train headlights and the belching steam.

He walked across the bridge above the tracks. There was too much noise to hear anyone’s footsteps, even his own. He could no longer see the platform.

Suddenly there was movement, a sense of violent danger, a hatred so scalding it was like a prickle at the back of his neck.

He swung around.

Victor Garrick was a yard away from him, the light from below catching his ashen face, his blazing eyes and the fair, almost silver gleam of his hair. Above him in his right hand was a naval cutlass, raised to strike, the arc of its blade shining.

“You’re doing it too!” he sobbed, his lips stretched back over his teeth, his face twisted in tormenting, inner pain. “You’re just the same!” he shouted above the roar. “You hurt people! You make them sick and frightened and ashamed, and I won’t let you do it to her anymore!” He slashed the cutlass through the air and Pitt moved sideways just in time to avoid its blade on his shoulder. It would have been a crippling blow, all but severing his arm.

Pitt backed away sharply as Victor lunged forward, going past him and swinging around.

“You can’t get away!” Victor’s breath was hissing through his teeth and the tears streamed down his face. “Why do you lie to me?” The cry was torn from him in a terrible, wrenching sound, and he seemed to be looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him. “Liar! Liar! You keep saying it doesn’t hurt—but I know it does! It hurts right through till your whole body aches, and you lie awake all night, knotted up, sick and ashamed and guilty, thinking it’s all your fault and waiting for the next time! I’m frightened! Nothing makes any sense! You lied to me all the time!” His voice was a scream and again the cutlass slashed through the air. “You’re frightened too! I’ve seen your face, and the bruises, and the blood! I can smell your misery! I can taste it in my mouth all the time! I won’t let it go on! I’ll stop him!” Again he slashed wildly with the blade.

Pitt backed away desperately. He did not dare use his stick; that blade would have sliced it through and left him defenseless.

It was all very plain now: the bullying Winthrop, beating Mina; the bus conductor who had callously damaged the beloved cello; the arrogant Scarborough, who had dismissed the maid and threatened her with ruin; it was always the bruised and defenseless women. He must have attacked Bailey when he had been pursuing Bart’s whereabouts at the time of the murders, and frightened Mina. She was haunted by the terror that Bart was guilty, at least of Winthrop’s death.

“But why did you kill Arledge?” he shouted aloud, his voice hoarse.

Behind them a train belched out steam and blew its whistle.

Victor looked blank.

“Why did you kill Arledge?” Pitt shouted again. “He didn’t bully anyone!”

Victor was bending a little at the knees, adjusting his balance, one hand on the railing, the other clenched around the cutlass.

Pitt moved sideways again, and backwards, just beyond reach of the blade. “What did Arledge do?”

For a moment Victor was surprised. The sudden confusion showed in his face. The anger vanished and he stood motionless.

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. You cut his head off and left him in the bandstand. Don’t you remember?”

“No I didn’t!” Victor’s voice was a shriek above the hiss and rattle of the trains. He lunged forward, swinging the blade, his weight carrying him. Pitt leapt sideways and towards him, catching him on the shoulders as Victor’s hand, clenched around the hilt, landed on his arm so hard he dropped the stick and heard it clatter on the bridge.

Pitt let out a yell of pain and fear, but it was swallowed up in the shriek of the train whistle. Now steam billowed around them. He charged forward, head down, and caught Victor in the chest. All his weight was on one foot as he reached to strike again. He lost his balance and fell backward. The railing caught him in the middle of his back and the weight of the cutlass carried him still farther. His foot slipped on the wet metal of the bridge.

Pitt scrambled after him, trying to grasp his arm, but it slipped out of his hands. His legs came up, catching Pitt and knocking him off balance.

With a scream of surprise, and then momentary terror, Victor toppled over and disappeared into the headlights of an oncoming train.

The sound of the impact was lost in the roar of the engine and the shrill screech of the whistle. For a blazing second the engine driver’s white face was imprinted on Pitt’s mind, and then it was all over. He stood gripping the rail with shaking hands, his body cold and his mind illuminated with a harsh, clear understanding, and an undeniable pity.

Victor was gone. His rage and his pain were unreachable now.

Then as the steam cleared and he turned, he saw another figure behind where he had stood. She was moving forward, clasping the rail and pulling herself along like a blind person in the dark, her face ashen.

He stared at her in horror. Suddenly it was all clear. It was she Victor had been shouting at, not Pitt at all. That fearful emotion had been directed at her, and all the terror and pain of the past.

“I didn’t know!” The words were torn out of her. “Not until tonight. I swear!”

“No,” he answered, so overwhelmed with pity his voice was barely a whisper in his throat.

“It was his father, you see,” she went on, desperate he should understand. “He beat me. He wasn’t a wicked man, he just couldn’t control his temper. I always used to tell Victor it was all right, that it didn’t hurt. I thought it was the right thing to do!” A look of confusion and despair filled her, obliterating even grief for the moment. “I thought I was protecting him. I thought it would be all right, do you see? I didn’t want him hating his father, and Samuel wasn’t bad—just …” An anguished pleading filled her. Her eyes searched his face, willing him to believe her. “He did love us, in his way, I know he did. He told me so … often. It was my fault he got so angry. If I had been …”

“It’s over,” he said, moving towards her. He could not bear any more. Down below them the train had stopped, billowing steam, and there were men running along the platform and shouting. She should not see this. Someone should take her away. Someone should try to do something for the terrible pain in her. “Come.” He held her by the arm and half dragged her towards the steps. “There’s nothing else here now.”

That same morning Charlotte had gone straight from breakfast to see Emily. They were sipping lemonade together, sitting on the terrace in Emily’s garden. It was a mild sunny day, and apart from that, they chose to be out of earshot of any possible hovering servant. The situation was desperate. Plans must be made which were better not overheard. Jack would disapprove intensely, he would be bound to, with his new responsibilities. But apart from the desire to know the solution to the problem, far more urgently than that, they must do everything possible to defend Pitt.

“How on earth can we find out the identity of someone’s lover?” Charlotte said desperately, sipping her lemonade. “We can’t follow her.”

“That is impractical,” Emily pointed out. “And anyway it would take far too long. It might be days before they see each other again. We must do something more rapid than that.”

“But if she doesn’t see him?” Charlotte said desperately.

“Then we must make her!” Emily had lost none of her resolution. One unexpected victory had filled her with confidence. “We must send her a letter, or something of that sort. An invitation, purporting to come from him.”

“She will know it was not his handwriting,” Charlotte pointed out. “Beside that, people who are in love usually have a special way of communicating with each other, some term of endearment, or pet name or the like.”

Emily frowned at her.

“Apart from that,” Charlotte went on. “Even if she answered it, that would not tell us who he is.”

“Don’t be obstructive,” Emily said with a touch of asperity. “We should have to word it so that she would go to him, and then we should know who he was.”

“And he would equally know who we were,” Charlotte finished for her. “They would then know there was something very peculiar going on. It would look like the most vulgar of curiosity. We might do more harm than good.” She set down her lemonade glass. “Don’t forget that establishing who he is is only the beginning. To have an admirer is not a crime, in fact if you are discreet, it is not really even regarded as a sin.”

Emily glared at her. “Do you want to solve this or not?”

Charlotte did not even bother to answer her.

“I don’t think Dulcie will betray herself,” she said thoughtfully, taking up her lemonade again. It really was delicious, and most refreshing. “But he might”

“But we don’t know who he is,” Emily retorted. “Before we know that, we have to trace him—through her.”

“I am not sure that that is necessarily true.”

Emily drew her brows together with suddenly sharpened concentration. “Do you have an idea?”

“Possibly. Let us consider what qualities he must possess.”

“To be a lover?” Emily looked incredulous. “Don’t be absurd. He must be virile—that’s about all. Everything else is purely a matter of taste.”

“You are being simplistic,” Charlotte said acidly. “I mean what is it that makes sense of murdering Aidan Arledge now, instead of sooner, or later, or better still, not at all? Most people who are lovers don’t murder a spouse. Why did it happen this time, and why now?”

Emily sat silent for several minutes, carefully eating a piece of fudge before she replied.

“Circumstances have changed,” she answered at length. “That is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Yes, I agree, but in what way?” Charlotte took a piece of the fudge also.

“Someone discovered her? No, that would mean they killed the discoverer, if he, or she, threatened blackmail. Her husband discovered, and was about to expose her to public shame? Even to throw her out for adultery?”

“When he was having a love affair with Jerome Carvell? Hardly!”

“She discovered him with Jerome Carvell and killed him in a fit of utter disgust,” Emily offered.

“Thomas thought she didn’t know about Jerome Carvell,” Charlotte said. “She suspected he had a lover, but she thought it was a woman, as anyone would.”

“But Thomas thinks she is a grieving widow,” Emily responded, pulling a face. “He doesn’t know she has a lover herself.”

Charlotte conceded that point in silence. Pitt’s opinion of Dulcie was not something she wished to dwell on.

“I love Thomas to distraction,” Emily continued. “But he is not always the best judge of a woman. Very few men are,” she added graciously. “Well, something made it imperative. Perhaps he was going away, because she couldn’t marry him, and she had to make herself free to stop him leaving forever?”

“And maybe he was going to marry someone else?” Charlotte suggested.

“Which would mean he was free to marry,” Emily said with rising eagerness. “That narrows down the field automatically. There are not so many gentlemen of Dulcie Arledge’s age who are unmarried, and respectable.”

He did not have to be of her age, but that was a subject neither of them wished to pursue.

“Do you think he really intended to go away?” Charlotte was doubtful.

“No. All right then, if he is not about to become unavailable, perhaps he has suddenly become available? When there was no point in her being free before, because he was not, now he is, so she acted to become free also.”

“That makes sense,” Charlotte agreed. “Yes, indeed, that sounds quite possible. Or, of course, someone she has met only recently?”

“That too. Which could be Bart Mitchell, Mina Winthrop’s brother.”

“Thomas suspected him, I think, but not for that reason.”

“What reason?”

“On account of Mina.”

“What had Arledge to do with Mina?”

Charlotte explained the very little she knew.

Emily dismissed it. “Or else someone like Landon Hurlwood, who has been recently widowed. He is suddenly available, where he was not before. Now he is really most attractive.” Her voice was touched with enthusiasm. “I could not blame any woman for being a little smitten with him. And I imagine if he cared for you, it would be very easy to lose your sense of proportion a trifle.”

“Hitting your husband over the head and then decapitating him and leaving him in the park is not a trifle,” Charlotte said swiftly. There was, however, a thread of enthusiasm in her too, and Emily disregarded the words in favor of the tone.

“But he fits the qualifications precisely, doesn’t he?” Emily leaned forward, her elbows on the wrought iron table.

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed with growing conviction. “Yes, he seems just the sort of person. But I imagine there must be many others. The difficulty is, how do we decide which one?”

“Do we need to?” Emily looked puzzled. “Surely you can see that this is almost certainly the right kind of answer?”

“Of course I can. But we need to prove it to be sure. Then we need to know if he killed Aidan Arledge, and of course, if Dulcie knew about it.”

“Oh.” Emily let out a long sigh. “Well, that is going to be interesting. How can we do that? Especially since Thomas apparently could not …”

“He has never considered Dulcie,” Charlotte said, biting her lip and feeling the twinge of guilt back again.

“Maybe she had no idea that he did it on her account.”

This time it was Charlotte who gave the knowing, exasperated look.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Emily agreed. “She is not naive at all. I’m sorry. What shall we do?”

“We must be certain.” Charlotte was speaking as much to herself as to Emily. She relapsed into thought for a moment or two. “We must provoke a reaction,” she said at last.

“In whom? Dulcie? How will that help? She won’t betray him.”

“Not in Dulcie, in him!”

“But we don’t know who he is. It not only could be Landon Hurlwood. It could also be Bart Mitchell, or any of I don’t know how many others!”

“Well let us start with Bart Mitchell and Landon Hurlwood.” Charlotte bit her lip. “Although I confess I am not certain how to go about that.”

Emily thought for a moment, then her face lit with a smile.

“I am. Obviously the affair is secret, and if it had anything whatever to do with Aidan Arledge’s death, they will be desperate that it should be kept so for quite a while afterwards. It can only come to light as if they had fallen in love once she was a widow. If either you or I were to meet them, socially of course, so it will seem quite casual”—she leaned forward eagerly—“and make some remark, with a knowing look, then they would be sufficiently disconcerted that we should know immediately that we had the right person.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest that she could not possibly do that, but her voice died away as she recalled Pitt’s desperate situation, his dismissal, and even more than that the loss of the house, having to tell Mama, and having Grandma-ma’s malicious satisfaction, but above all, the hurt to Pitt himself.

“Yes,” she said, without the faintest idea how she would accomplish it. “Yes, that is an excellent idea. We had better begin immediately. I shall take Bart Mitchell, because I can call upon Mina. You must take Mr. Hurlwood.” She rose to her feet. “How you will find him I haven’t a notion, but that is your affair.” And giving Emily a quick hug, without waiting to hear if there were any excuse or evasion, she swept in through the French doors and made for the hallway and the street.

She arrived at Mina’s house within the hour, long before Pitt got there, and was greeted with pleasure and the sort of ease that usually exists only after considerable friendship. Ordinarily she would have felt guilt for using so generous an emotion in such a way, but today there was no room in her mind for anything but necessity.

“How delightful to see you Mrs. Pitt,” Mina said enthusiastically. “How is your new house? Are you quite comfortable there now?”

“Indeed, thank you,” Charlotte replied, seeing Bart Mitchell behind her with intense relief. “I like it extremely. Good morning, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he replied, not troubling to keep the surprise from his face. He took a step forward.

“Please do not leave on my account,” she said in far too much haste. “I should feel most distressed.” Then she could have kicked herself for overreaction. She sounded absurd. And yet if he left the whole journey would be abortive, and there was no time to lose. There were only a few days at most before Pitt would be off the case forever.

“Well—I …” He looked startled. It was not the reaction he could possibly have foreseen.

Then a wild idea occurred to Charlotte, desperate and ridiculous, but her own dignity was beside the point now. All she could think of was Thomas.

She had no difficulty in blushing. She certainly felt fool enough. She lowered her eyes modestly, as though to hide her emotions, and then looked up at him suddenly in the way she had seen countless women do. Emily did it to a devastating effect. She herself had only tried it a few times in her youth, and made a complete exhibition of herself.

Bart looked even more taken aback, but he did not leave, in fact he sat on the sofa as if fully intending to remain.

Good heavens. Could he possibly be attracted to her? Or was he merely flattered?

Mina was saying something and Charlotte had not heard a word of it. She must pay attention or she was going to compound the situation by even further idiocy.

“How kind of you,” she murmured, hoping it fitted the circumstance.

Mina rang the bell and as soon as the maid appeared, ordered cool lemonade. That must have been what she had said.

Charlotte searched her wits for some intelligent topic of conversation. She knew nothing of current gossip in society, she had neither the means nor the inclination; it was not done for women to discuss politics; she was not up-to-date with fashion. She did not wish to go boldly into the subject of the Headsman. She had not been to the theater in months, nor to a concert.

“How is your arm? I hope the burn is healing,” she said to fill the silence.

“Yes, indeed,” Mina replied, raising her eyebrows as if she had not expected it. “Much more rapidly than I had thought it could. I believe your swift action may have saved me endless discomfort.”

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “I know cold water is merely an ease of the symptoms, which is very often nothing to do with treatment at all. But in the case of burns, the ease seems to last, and there is much less of a mark left. Do you agree, Mr. Mitchell?”

“I think I am obliged to, Mrs. Pitt,” he replied with a smile. “Although I have little experience of domestic scalding.”

“Of other burns, perhaps?” she pursued with far more desperation than her slightly shaking voice betrayed.

His smile broadened. “Oh yes. I have quite accidentally cured sunburn with cold water.”

“Sunburn? How interesting.” She gazed at him with rapture as if it were the most fascinating subject imaginable. He did have remarkable blue eyes.

He shifted his gaze discreetly and proceeded to tell her of his travels in Africa, of becoming sunburned and falling off his horse while crossing a wide river in spate, and in so doing, very quickly relieving the pain in his skin and the faintness he was beginning to feel as a result of the heat. It was an entertaining story and he told it with humor and animation. She did not have to affect to be interested.

The maid brought the lemonade, which was delicious, and Charlotte continued to ask him questions about his experiences, which he answered easily. Mina sat upright on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap, a small smile on her lips, completely at ease.

But time was slipping by. Charlotte had accomplished nothing decisive enough to prove her point. If Bart Mitchell were Dulcie’s lover then he was masking his feelings with consummate skill. But then the more she knew of him, the more did she believe that such a thing would be both natural and easy for him. He would not betray a woman he loved, either intentionally or by lack of thought or self-mastery.

She felt increasingly foolish with every passing moment. Please Heaven Emily was doing better. She must plunge in, whatever the cost. She must at least try!

“How long have you been returned from Africa, Mr. Mitchell?” she asked with wide eyes. Actually it was not proving as difficult to flirt with him as it might have. He was, on closer acquaintance, a most pleasing person, and most comely of appearance.

“Since the autumn of last year, Mrs. Pitt,” he answered.

“Oh—some time.” The words slipped out involuntarily. She swallowed, hoping the disappointment in them did not sound as clear to his ears as it did to hers. Still, perhaps that was not too long in which to fall in love—for some people. She could not imagine taking so long herself. And Bart Mitchell did not look like a man to take above half a year for his emotions to become engaged. “Do you enjoy London society, or does it seem very tame after all your adventures?” It was a clumsy question. It invited only a polite answer. “Oh—I beg your pardon!” She hurried on. “How can you say anything but that you do? But please give me a more honest reply, if you miss the sense of danger and something new each day.” She was talking far too quickly, and yet she seemed unable to moderate herself. “The challenge to your imagination and courage, your ability to endure hardship, and to invent your way out of shortage or loss.”

“My dear Mrs. Pitt.” He smiled at her with what seemed to be quite genuine amusement. “I assure you, I had no intention of giving you an answer that was merely civil. I do not take you for a woman who passes her time in idle chatter. In fact, I think there is probably purpose to most of what you do.”

She felt her face burn. That was far closer to the truth than, please Heaven, he had any idea!

“Oh,” she said uselessly. “I—er …”

“To answer your question,” he continued, “of course there is a great deal I miss about Africa, and times when London seems intolerably tame, but there are also many times when I look around at the greenness of gardens and the freshness of spring flowers, the gracious buildings, and know how much permanent and civilized life there is behind the facades, how much beauty and invention, and I am excited to be here too.”

She kept her eyes lowered. “Shall you be returning to Africa, Mr. Mitchell?”

“One day, I imagine,” he replied quite casually.

“But you have no immediate plans?” She held her breath for his reply.

“None,” he said with a lift of amusement in his voice.

“Of course,” she said very gently. “Mrs. Arledge will be so glad. But then you would hardly have left her.” She looked up swiftly to catch his expression.

There was not the faintest guilt in it, only complete incomprehension.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, frowning a trifle.

She had never felt more completely foolish in her life. She had flirted shamelessly with a thoroughly decent man, and wittered on as if her brain were stuffed with feathers, and now she could think of no graceful way whatever of extricating herself.

“Oh …” She struggled desperately. “I fear I have expressed myself very badly. I think I have misunderstood something that was said to me. Please forgive me.” She did not dare to look at him, and she had temporarily entirely forgotten Mina’s presence.

But he would not let her escape so easily.

“Mrs. Arledge?” he questioned.

“Yes—I …” She trailed off. There was nothing whatever which could explain her remark.

“She seems a woman of some dignity,” he went on. “But not someone with whom I have any but the briefest and most formal acquaintance. In fact I think the Requiem service for her husband was the only occasion in which I have met her. Do you know her well?”

“No! I—I gathered the impression you were … but it must have been someone else. I daresay I was not listening properly, and misheard or misunderstood. I am so sorry.” At last she looked up and met his eyes. “Please forget I spoke. It was most foolish of me.”

“Of course, if you wish.”

“Do have some more lemonade,” Mina offered, speaking for the first time since the subject of Africa had been raised. She had been listening with attention and pleasure, but had not interrupted. Now she lifted the silver jug invitingly.

“No thank you. It is most kind, but I must be leaving.” Charlotte rose to her feet with rather more haste than grace. She was aching to escape. “I do not wish to outstay what has been a most delightful visit. Thank you so much for receiving me so generously when I called entirely without warning or invitation. I really only wished to tell you that your advice has been most successful, and I am truly obliged to you.”

“It was a trifling thing,” Mina said with a wave of her hand. “I am delighted if it worked out to your liking.”

“Perhaps—in a little while, later on, you will be kind enough to call?” Charlotte invited her, offering one of her newly printed cards with the new address upon it. Only after Mina had taken it did she remember that in all probability she and Pitt would no longer be there. Not unless they were a great deal more successful than so far in solving the case.

“Perhaps you will call upon us again, Mrs. Pitt?” Bart asked with a smile that did not conceal a genuine wish.

“Thank you,” she accepted, vowing to herself never to set foot in the place again. “I shall look forward to it!”

She fled out into the hall and out of the door as the maid opened it for her, and walked with indecent haste along the footpath towards the main thoroughfare and the first omnibus she could find.

Emily, on the other hand, had no trepidation whatever in finding Landon Hurlwood. It required a little more ingenuity to discover where he would be. Once that was accomplished she dressed in the height of fashion, in a white muslin with sprigs of Delft blue, pointed at the top of the shoulder, broad sleeved, and a marvelous hat with high crown and one ostrich feather over the brim, and called her carriage.

It necessitated the most precise timing in order to catch him. In fact she had to have her carriage stand still, causing some obstruction, for a full fifteen minutes, before she saw him leave his offices in Whitehall and head for Trafalgar Square. Fortunately it was the nicest of spring weather, and not at all a miserable day in which to walk.

She climbed down without the assistance of the somewhat startled coachman, and set off towards her quarry.

“Mr. Hurlwood!” she exclaimed with delight when she was within a dozen yards. “How pleasant to see you!”

He looked startled. Obviously his mind had been upon whatever matters of government and administration he had discussed last, or proposed to discuss next. Social acquaintances were not expected at this time in the afternoon, in the middle of the city.

“Good afternoon … Mrs. Radley,” he said with surprise. He raised his hat and stopped, moving a little aside to allow others to pass. “How are you?”

She smiled charmingly. “In most excellent health, thank you. What a lovely day, isn’t it? One feels filled with boundless optimism at such a time.”

“Indeed,” he agreed pleasantly. “You have every reason. It was an excellent victory, and the sweeter for having been unexpected, at least by some.”

“Oh yes! I am afraid I did not even believe it myself at first. I should have had more confidence, shouldn’t I?”

He smiled. “As events proved, yes, but I think it is far wiser to be modest beforehand, and then rejoice afterwards, than the other way around.”

“Oh indeed. I am afraid poor Mr. Uttley did not take his defeat very well. One must learn to be discreet, do you not agree? Keeping one’s emotions to oneself is a great part of success in public life, I think.” She made it a question, and gazed at him with wide innocent eyes.

“I expect you are right,” he said slowly, obviously uncertain quite what she was referring to in addition to Uttley, but he had realized she meant more than simple observation.

“What one knows about but has been conducted with the utmost discretion is quite another matter.” She inclined her head with a knowing little smile. “Love affairs that are … quite private.”

He looked a trifle uncomfortable, but she did not know if it was guilt or merely embarrassment at a rather tasteless remark.

“I think Mrs. Arledge is bearing up very well after such a wretched bereavement, don’t you?” she went on. “Such a difficult time for it to have happened. But I am sure you will be of the utmost comfort to her, and the soul of good judgment and discretion.”

He blushed deeply and his hand on his cane was clenched. His voice was a little husky when he replied.

“Yes—quite. One does what one can.” It was a meaningless remark, and they both knew it. His hot, uncomfortable eyes gave her the answer she was seeking. An admission in words was unnecessary.

“I will not keep you, Mr. Hurlwood,” she said graciously. “I am sure you have some business of importance to attend, and you have been so courteous to me already. I wish you a good day. It was most agreeable to have met you.” And with a charming smile, all innocent pleasure, she swept away and crossed the street back towards her waiting carriage and a footman who knew better than to wonder what his mistress was about.

“What do we do now?” Emily said eagerly, but with a faintly puckered brow. She and Charlotte were sitting in Emily’s boudoir in Ashworth House. It was a better place than the withdrawing room, because although Jack was supposed to be at the House of Commons, it was just possible he might return, and this was a conversation it would be a great deal better he did not overhear, even in part.

Similarly, Charlotte had left instructions with Gracie that she did not know what time she would return, so Gracie should give the children their evening meal and see them to bed, and if the master came home, she was to inform him that the mistress was visiting with Emily and might even stay the night. It was not a time when she would normally have been absent, but there was no help for it Of course the difference was that Charlotte would tell Gracie the reasons, whereas Emily would very much rather not have her servants know anything about it. They were all very impressed with Jack’s victory, and their loyalties were acutely divided.

“We must find proof, if there is any,” Charlotte replied.

“There’s bound to be, isn’t there?”

“Only if one of them did it. If they are innocent there won’t be.”

Emily waved her hand. “Let’s not even think of that. How do you suppose it happened? I mean, how could she have done it, if it were her?”

Charlotte thought for several moments.

“Well it’s not very difficult to hit someone on the head, if they trust you and are not expecting anything of the sort. Obviously you are very pleasant to them …”

“You’d have to lure them to where you wanted.” Emily took up the thread. “A grown man, even a thinnish one, would be terribly difficult to move once he was insensible. How on earth did she get him to the bandstand in the park?”

“One thing at a time,” Charlotte reproved. “So far we haven’t even hit him on the head.”

“Well get on with it! What are you waiting for?”

“To get him to the right place, of course. It takes some planning. It must be the right time, too. We don’t want him lying around for hours!”

“Why not?” Emily asked immediately. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does! There are servants. How can you explain your—”

“All right,” Emily interrupted. “Yes. I see. Then it has to be after the servants have retired, or in a place where they will not go. What about the garden somewhere? After dark you can be certain the gardener will not be working. A greenhouse or potting shed?”

“Excellent,” Charlotte agreed. “How does one persuade him to go to the greenhouse after dark?”

“To show him something….”

“What about if one had heard a sound?”

“Send the footman,” Emily answered.

“Oh yes, of course. I don’t have a footman.”

“You don’t have a greenhouse either.”

Charlotte sighed with a brief second of regret. If they had been able to keep the new house, she might have had one. She might even have had a male servant in time. But that was all unimportant now.

“Then one lures him into the greenhouse,” she reasoned, “by saying that there is something special to see. A flower which blooms at night and has a remarkable perfume.”

“Is one on blossoming terms with a husband one is about to murder?” Emily grimaced.

“Then something else. I don’t know … something amiss that the gardener has done? Something extravagant you need to speak to the man about, or his permission to dismiss him and employ someone else?”

“All right. You get him to the greenhouse, have him bend over to look at whatever it is, and hit him on the head as hard as you can with whatever comes to hand. At least in the greenhouse there will be plenty of tools one could use. Then what?”

“Leave him,” Charlotte thought aloud. “Until the middle of the night, when you can return, to take off his head….”

“Suitably dressed,” Emily interposed.

“Dressed?”

“In something that will not show the blood!”

“Oh.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose with distaste, but she realized it was an extremely practical remark. “Yes, of course. It would have to be either something she could dispose of entirely, or else something that was waterproof and from which it would wash off.”

“Like—what? What can you wash blood off without leaving a stain?”

“Oilskins?” Emily asked dubiously. “But why would she have oilskins? It’s not the sort of thing one keeps. I don’t have anything remotely like that.”

“Gardener’s?” Charlotte thought aloud. “And then she could pass as a gardener going across the park.” Her voice rose in excitement as memory returned. “And there was a gardener seen in the park, wheeling a barrow! Emily! Maybe that was the murderer—wheeling Aidan Arledge’s body from his house to the bandstand?”

“Then was it Dulcie, or Landon Hurlwood?” Emily asked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Charlotte replied urgently. “If it was Hurlwood, he can’t have done it without her knowledge. She’s guilty either way. Arledge must have been killed in his own greenhouse and taken to the park in his own wheelbarrow!”

“Then we must prove it.” Emily stood up. “Knowing it is no use if we don’t prove it.”

“We don’t know it. It’s only a guess,” Charlotte argued, rising to her feet also. “We have to prove it to ourselves first of all. We’ll have to see it—find the place. There must be some stain of blood still there, if we know where to look.”

“Well she’s hardly going to give us a tour of her greenhouse, if she’s cut her husband’s head off there, is she!” Emily responded.

“No, of course not.” Charlotte took a deep breath and plunged on. “We’ll have to go at night, when she won’t know.”

“Break in?” Emily was incredulous, her voice rising to a squeak. Then as quickly the horror vanished from her face and a look of daring and enthusiasm replaced it. “Just the two of us? We’ll have to go tonight. There’s no time to lose.”

Charlotte gulped. “Yes, tonight. We’ll—we’ll go from here, as soon as … well, about midnight, I suppose?” She looked at Emily questioningly.

“Midnight is far too early,” Emily said. “She could still be up at that hour. I often am.”

“You are not in mourning. She’ll hardly be out dining or dancing.”

“We should still leave it until one o’clock at the earliest.”

“Oh—well I dare not return home. Thomas would …”

“Of course not,” Emily agreed. “We’ll have to leave from here. That’s obvious. I could hardly explain it to Jack either. He’d take a fit! We’ll have to leave here and wait somewhere else until one o’clock.”

“Where? How should we dress? It must be practical. We shan’t need to break in literally. All we need should be in the greenhouse or the gardener’s shed. But we must have a lamp of some sort. I wish I had a policeman’s bull’s-eye lamp.”

“No time,” Emily dismissed it with regret. “I’ll take a carriage lamp, that should do.”

“How are we getting there? We can hardly expect your coachman to take us.”

“We’ll have to have him take us somewhere close by. That’s simple. I know someone just ’round the corner. I’ll say I’m calling there.”

“At one o’clock in the morning, and dressed fit to burgle,” Charlotte said with an involuntary giggle.

“Oh—yes.” Emily bit her lip. “Well perhaps not. I’ll say she was taken ill. I’ll dress to burgle underneath, and put a good shawl on the top. You will have to do the same.” And before Charlotte could protest, she added, “I’ll find you something. We’ll borrow from one of my maids. They wear plain stuff, dark colors. That will do excellently. Come. We have a great deal to see about.” She shot Charlotte a look of fear and trembling excitement.

With her heart in her mouth, Charlotte followed her.

At five minutes past one o’clock Charlotte and Emily, dressed in dark stuff gowns and with shawls tied over their heads (Emily most particularly to hide the pale gleam of her hair), crept along the pavement towards the garden entrance of Dulcie Arledge’s house. The carriage lamp was not lit; the streetlights were sufficient, and anyway, they wished intensely not to be noticed.

“Next one,” Charlotte whispered. “I’ve got a knife and a skewer in case it is locked.”

“A skewer?” Emily questioned.

“A kitchen skewer. You know—to test if things are cooked.”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t cook. Can you use it?”

“Of course I can. All you have to do is poke it in.”

“And the door opens?” Emily said with surprise.

“No of course not, fool! You know if the meat or the cake is cooked.”

Emily giggled, and immediately in front of her Charlotte gave a little hiccough of excitement, and giggled as well.

When they reached the gate it was indeed padlocked, and Emily was obliged to light the lamp and hold it, with her back to Charlotte and her eyes fearfully watching the road, while Charlotte twiddled the skewer around carefully and at last managed to move the very simple latch. Emily doused the lamp instantly, and they undid the lock, took it off its chain and opened the door.

They slipped inside with a gasp of relief and pushed the gate closed again, being careful to take the chain and padlock with them, in case its open state should be noticed and cause suspicion.

Charlotte looked around her. It was extremely dark. The wall was high enough to block off almost all the light from the streetlamps beyond, and the sky was too overcast to allow much of the pale, three-quarter moon to shed more than a faint luminescence.

“I can’t see,” Emily whispered. “We aren’t even going to find the greenhouse in this, never mind a bloodstain.”

“We can find the greenhouse,” Charlotte replied. “We’ll light the lamp again when we are inside it.”

“Do you really think anyone in the house would be awake at this hour?”

“No, but it isn’t worth the risk. We would be turned out before we could find anything, and how on earth would we explain ourselves?”

The argument silenced Emily. The thought of being found was too hideous even to contemplate. They had no imaginable excuse whatever.

Charlotte leading the way, they crept forward along a narrow cobbled path, slimy with moss and dew, Emily clinging onto Charlotte’s skirt to make sure they did not lose each other in the dark. To do that, and then come face to face, would be enough to break their nerve entirely. One shriek, however involuntary, would waken the neighborhood.

The huge mass of the house rose to their left, black against the pale clouds, and ahead of them was a broken roofline and the serrated edge of the spine of a lower roof, an elegant finial pointing a sharp finger upwards at the end.

“Greenhouse?” Emily asked softly.

“Conservatory,” Charlotte replied.

“How do you know?”

“Finial,” Charlotte whispered back. “Don’t have a finial on a greenhouse. It must be beyond, ’round the corner.”

“Are you even sure they’ve got one?”

“They must have. Every house this size has a greenhouse or a potting shed. Greenhouse would be better.”

“Why?”

“Easier to lure him to. How would you lure your husband to the potting shed in the middle of the night?”

Emily giggled nervously. “Don’t be ridiculous. Conservatory, maybe. A romantic tryst? Put on your best peignoir and languish among the lilies?”

“Hardly. If you’ve been married twenty years—and he preferred men anyway. Damnation!” This last was added as Charlotte tripped and stubbed her foot against a large, decorative stone.

“What is it?” Emily demanded.

“A stone. It’s all right.” And gingerly she resumed her very slow forward pace.

It was five minutes before either of them spoke again. By this time they were around the back of the conservatory and creeping across an open terrace towards a further dense shadow ahead.

“That must be the greenhouse,” Emily said hopefully.

“Or a summerhouse,” Charlotte added. “Maybe that would be as good. Oh—no, of course it wouldn’t. Nothing in a summerhouse to cover stains.”

“I can’t see any glass,” Emily said with a note of desperation.

“I can’t see anything at all!” Charlotte responded.

“If it were glass we should see some gleam of light on it!” Emily hissed. “It’s not that dark!”

Charlotte stopped and turned around slowly, and Emily, not having noticed, bumped into her.

“Say something!” she snapped. “Don’t do that without telling me.”

“Sorry. Look! There’s a gleam. There’s glass over there. That must be the greenhouse.” And without waiting for comment she set off in the new direction. Within moments they were outside a small building where dim panes of glass reflected the fitful gleam of the moon in a watery pattern like dull satin.

“Is it locked?” Emily asked.

Charlotte put her hand to the door and tried it. It swung open under her touch, giving a painful squeak of unoiled hinges.

Emily let out a gasp, and immediately stifled it with her hand.

“Lamp!” she ordered.

As soon as they were inside Charlotte held it up and Emily lit it again. In its warm radiance the inside of the greenhouse sprang to vision. It was a small place set aside for forcing early flowers and vegetables. Trays of lettuce and marigold, delphinium, and larkspur seedlings sat on benches. Several geraniums were in pots on another shelf.

“Floor!” Emily whispered sharply. “Never mind about the shelves.”

Charlotte held the lamp down about two feet above the wooden planks on which they were standing.

“I can’t see anything,” Emily said with acute disappointment “It looks like hard-packed earth to me. Move it a bit.” This last instruction was directed at the light.

Charlotte inched farther along, holding the lamp carefully. The corner of her skirt caught a flowerpot and sent it over with a dull thud.

“Ah!” Emily drew in her breath with a suffocated cry.

“Ssh!” Charlotte moved the light again. Then she saw it: a long dark stain on the ground near the far wall. “Oh …”

Emily bent down and peered at it “It could be anything,” she said with sharp disappointment. “Look.” Above it was a shelf with various tins and bottles containing all sorts of chemicals and mixtures of fertilizer, creosote, and poison for wasps’ and ants’ nests.

“It’s probably creosote,” Charlotte said guardedly. “But not necessarily. If I had blood all over the place I should mask it by adding something strong like that. Here, pass me that trowel.”

“What are you going to do?” Emily passed it immediately.

“Dig.”

For several moments Charlotte scratched at the hard earth, painstakingly removing the ground soaked with creosote and exposing under it a further layer whose odor, when she lifted it gingerly to her nose, was quite different There was nothing sharp or pungent about it; it was stale and a little sweet.

“Blood?” Emily said with a catch in her voice.

“I think so.” Slowly Charlotte rose from her knees, her face pale. “Now we’ve got to find the barrow. Come on. It’s probably outside somewhere at this time of year.”

Very carefully, the lamp held low and half covered by a shawl, they tiptoed out of the greenhouse, pulling the door closed behind them, and into the garden again.

“You’ll have to hold the light up,” Emily said anxiously. “We’ll never see it otherwise.”

Charlotte held it up obediently.

“Where does one keep a barrow?” she said thoughtfully, her voice so low Emily barely heard it. “And the oilskins. I wonder where they are?”

“Maybe she burnt them?” Emily suggested. “I would.”

“Only if you’ve got an incinerator, and the servants wouldn’t notice. Oilskins would make a terrible smell. Anyway, I don’t suppose they are hers. They probably belong to the gardener. He’d miss them. No, she’d wash them off thoroughly and put them back. There must be a shed somewhere, for spades and forks and so on.” She turned around slowly, holding the light higher.

“There!” Emily said hastily, just at the same moment as Charlotte saw it. “Put the light down! Someone’ll see it! Come on, hurry up!”

At a rapid shuffle, so as not to trip or bump into anything, they moved towards the shed, which mercifully was not locked either. Once inside, the light was set on the bench, although it was hardly necessary. The wheelbarrow was immediately apparent, and the oilskins were hung on a peg above it.

Emily gave a little squeak of fear, and Charlotte shivered with a sudden consciousness of horror, knowing what it was she saw. Very carefully, her heart beating so violently it seemed as if her whole body shook with it, she put out her hand and ran her finger over the wooden surface of the wheelbarrow.

“Is it wet?” Emily asked.

“No, of course not,” Charlotte replied. “But it is stained pretty badly. I think it’s creosote again.” She moved over to the oilskins and held the lamp close up to them. “There’s something in the seams here. I’m sure that’s blood.”

“Then come on!” Emily whispered urgently. “We’ve got enough! Let’s leave before someone catches us!”

Gratefully Charlotte turned around and retreated, snagging her shawl on the barrow handle and yanking it in sudden fear.

Outside, they were about to douse the light and try to make their way back around the conservatory towards the wall when they saw another light about ten yards ahead of them, in the garden.

They both froze.

“Who goes there?” a loud masculine voice demanded. “Stop, or it’ll be the worse for yer!”

“Oh God!” Emily sobbed. “It’s the police!”

“We’ll tell them what we found!” Charlotte said boldly, but her legs were shaking and her stomach felt decidedly sick. For a moment or two her feet would not obey her.

Emily tried to speak, but no coherent sound came.

The constable was almost upon them. His cape and gleaming buttons were clearly visible. He held up his bull’s-eye lantern and stared at them incredulously.

“Well now then, what ’ave we ’ere? Two servant girls out to steal the lettuces, eh?”

“Most certainly not,” Charlotte said with as much dignity as she could muster, which was very little. “We are—”

Emily suddenly came to life and gave her a resounding kick.

Charlotte shrieked and swore involuntarily.

“Now then!” the constable said calmly. “There’s no need for bad language, miss. Who are yer, and wot are yer doing ’ere? I’ll ’ave ter take yer in charge. Yer don’t live ’ere. I know all Mrs. Arledge’s servants, and yer ain’t one of ’em, or two of ’em I should say.”

There was no evading the issue.

“No we are not!” Charlotte said, finding her voice at last. “My husband is Superintendent Thomas Pitt, of Bow Street station. And this is my—my maid.” There was no need to incriminate Emily, at least not yet She felt rather than heard Emily’s sigh of relief.

“Now then, miss, that’s a silly story that will just get you nowhere,” the constable said with some surprise.

“This is the scene of a murder!” Charlotte said fiercely. “There are bloodstains in that greenhouse, and if you don’t call Superintendent Pitt you will never be excused for it!”

“ ’E’ll be at ’ome in ’is bed,” the constable said firmly.

“Of course he will. He lives at number twelve, Gordon Square, Bloomsbury. Send for him!” Charlotte ordered imperiously. “And there’s a telephone.”

“Well, I don’t know if …”

He was saved from further argument or excuse by a light in the house going on and the scullery door opening.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice called out peremptorily. “Who’s there?”

“Police, sir,” the constable replied confidently. “Constable Woodrow, sir. I just caught two burglars in your garden.”

“We are not burglars!” Charlotte hissed.

“You be quiet!” Constable Woodrow was becoming unhappy; he was placed in a ridiculous situation. “No need to worry, sir. Everything is in ’and, you tell Mrs. Arledge not to disturb ’erself. I’ll take care of this.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” Charlotte said with sudden desperation. “We are not burglars. Send for Superintendent Pitt immediately.” She gulped. It was now or never. Everything was in the balance, Pitt’s career, their home. “This is the—the scene of a murder!”

“Murder?” The butler, dressed in his nightshirt, came out of the doorway at last, the lantern still in his hand. “Who is dead?”

“Mr. Arledge, you fool!” Charlotte said exasperatedly. “He was killed in his own greenhouse, and taken to the park in a wheelbarrow. Now send for the police! Have you one of the new telephone instruments?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then use it. Call Bloomsbury one-two-seven and fetch Superintendent Pitt.”

“Now, just a minute …” Woodrow began, but the butler had already turned and gone back into the house. A decisive command was better than standing in his nightshirt on the steps in the cold, arguing with a constable. He knew Pitt’s name, and the mistress had welcomed him in the house. He would sort out this fearful situation.

“Yer shouldn’t ’ave done that!” Woodrow said angrily.

A light sprang on upstairs in the house.

“Now look what you’ve done!” he went on. “Woke up poor Mrs. Arledge. As if she ’adn’t enough to bear, what with ’er ’usband’s death an’ all.”

Charlotte ignored him, pulling her shawl tighter around her. Now that they were no longer absorbed in what they were doing, she was growing cold.

Emily stood beside her shivering. She did not even wish to imagine what Jack might say when this came to his knowledge. There was just a faint hope Charlotte’s lie would hold.

That was ruined by more lights from the house and footsteps across the kitchen, and after a moment more, Dulcie Arledge herself appearing in the scullery doorway, dressed in a gorgeous sky-blue wrap and with her brown hair falling gently over her shoulders.

“What is going on here?” she asked with polite surprise. “Have you found intruders, Constable? Did I understand correctly?”

“That’s right, ma’am.” Woodrow stepped forward, dragging Charlotte and Emily with him.

Emily cowered, but surely Dulcie would not recognize her in this dress, in the uncertain light of the bull’s-eye lamp.

“Women?” Dulcie said incredulously. “They look like women.”

“They are women, ma’am,” Woodrow agreed. “After vegetables, likely. Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I’ll take ’em in and likely as not, you won’t ’ave ter do anything about it except agree ter the charge. Now come on.” He yanked at Charlotte a good deal less gently than before. Apparently his patience had snapped and he had changed his mind. Dulcie’s quiet authority had been enough to dispel any doubts.

“Charlotte!” There was panic rising in Emily’s voice. “Think of something! Not only will Thomas be ruined, Jack will be too!”

Such desperate times called for extreme measures. Charlotte opened her mouth and let out an earsplitting scream.

“Gawd!” Constable Woodrow leapt into the air and dropped the lantern. It rolled on the ground without breaking, ending up almost at the stone edge of the path. Charlotte did it again, and was rewarded by blinds shooting up in the house and more sounds of obvious activity.

“What did you do that for?” Emily hissed furiously.

“Witnesses,” Charlotte replied, and screamed again.

Woodrow swore vehemently and dived for the lantern.

“For Heaven’s sake stop it!” Dulcie commanded. “You’ll disturb the entire neighborhood. What on earth is the matter with you? Be quiet at once!”

Emily hesitated on the edge of trying to run away, and abandoned it.

Charlotte moved towards Dulcie, and into the radius of the light from the back door, just as Landon Hurlwood, hair disheveled, nightshirt showing above and below his dressing robe, appeared behind Dulcie, his face filled with alarm.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her, his voice husky with anxiety.

She froze, the blood draining from her face, leaving her suddenly ashen.

He looked beyond her at Charlotte, but there was no shred of recognition in his eyes. Then he turned to the constable. “What’s going on? What’s this? How serious is it?”

“No one’s hurt, sir,” Woodrow said, for the first time total uncertainty in his voice. He understood a scandal when he saw one, but to find it in Mrs. Arledge’s house destroyed his composure entirely. “This woman”—he indicated Charlotte—“this woman screamed, but no one has touched ’er, I swear.”

Hurlwood peered at her, and saw a young woman in a maid’s dress and with her hair wild and her skin stained with creosote and dust. Then his eyes went beyond her to Emily, now also in the light.

“Mrs. Radley …” Then he blanched, realizing at last what Dulcie had seen from the first.

“I can’t imagine, Mrs. Radley, what persuaded you to break into my garden in the middle of the night,” Dulcie said with a cold, shaking voice. “But there is nothing I can do to assist you. I think you must be mad. Perhaps the strain of childbirth, and then the political campaign, has broken your health. Your husband—”

“The police are coming,” Charlotte interrupted firmly.

“The police are already here!” Dulcie pointed out.

“I mean Superintendent Pitt.” Charlotte pushed her hair out of her eyes. “We have found the place where Mr. Arledge was murdered. There is still blood on the ground, in spite of the creosote you’ve poured over it. And also the wheelbarrow in which you took him to the park, after you had cut his head off.”

Dulcie opened her mouth to protest, but her voice died in a gasp.

Behind her, Landon Hurlwood was so white his eyes looked like holes sunken into his skull.

“And the oilskins,” Charlotte continued relentlessly. It must be finished. “Which you used to protect yourself from the blood.”

“That’s stupid!” Woodrow said with a strangled gasp. “Why would Mrs. Arledge ever think of such a dreadful thing? That’s wicked.”

“To be free to marry Mr. Hurlwood, now his wife is dead too; to escape from a dead marriage and revenge herself for twenty years’ betrayal,” Charlotte said, her voice strangely level in the awful silence. “She took advantage of the Headsman’s crimes to kill him and open the way for her.”

Woodrow turned to Dulcie. Landon Hurlwood had moved a step away from her, a terrible comprehension filling his face, like the knowledge of death.

Dulcie shot a look of hatred at Charlotte so intense Emily stepped backwards away from her, and Charlotte felt the cold run right through her body. Then Dulcie turned to Hurlwood.

“Landon!” She let out a single cry, then saw his expression—the horror, the tearing bruising guilt, and the revulsion—and knew that everything was lost.

It was impossible to say what she might have done next, because the garden doors had opened without their hearing them and Pitt stood wild-haired and ill-dressed not a yard from them.

Dulcie turned to him, opened her mouth, but no sound came.

Pitt’s face was filled with a disillusion that carried all the pain of every awakening from a sweet and gentle dream into a bitter reality. Then even as Charlotte watched him, she saw the admiration and tenderness bleed away until there was only an agonizing remnant left, that small shred of pity that never left him, no matter for whom or what the wound or the guilt. And with a coldness that ran right through her, leaving her shaking, she realized how deeply he had been moved by Dulcie, and how close she herself had come to losing a part of him which she could never have regained.

“Constable, take Mrs. Arledge to the Bow Street station. She is under arrest for the murder of Aidan Arledge,” he said very quietly.

Woodrow gulped. “Yes sir. Yes sir!” And he moved forward to obey.

Landon Hurlwood stood rooted to the spot like a man already passed beyond the world of ordinary exchange and the small businesses of life.

Pitt turned to Charlotte and Emily.

“Your own husband can take care of you,” he said to Emily. “You, thank God, are not my problem.” He turned to Charlotte. “You have some explaining to do, madam. You deserve to be taken in charge for breaking and entering!”

“You’ve got her.” Charlotte disregarded his words completely. “Will you be restored to your position now?”

For several seconds he struggled manfully to retain his anger, and lost. In spite of his best efforts his face broke into a smile of overwhelming relief. “Yes. I got the Headsman today, too.”

“You did?” She did not even care who he was, or why. She launched herself forward and threw herself into his arms. “You are brilliant! I always knew you were brilliant!”

He clasped her as closely as he could and kissed her cheek, her hair, her eyes, and then her mouth. Then he put out his other arm and took hold of Emily as well.

“Shall you tell Jack?” Emily asked in a very small voice.

“No,” Pitt replied with a muffled laugh. “But you will!”