Hyde Park Headsman

1

“OH GEORGE.” Millicent let out her breath in a sigh of happiness. “Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve never been out in the park at this time of the morning before. The dawn is so romantic, don’t you think? It’s the beginning of everything!”

George said nothing, but tiptoed a little more rapidly over the wet grass.

“Look at the light on the water.” Millicent went on ecstatically. “It’s just like a great silver plate.”

“Funny shape for a plate,” George muttered, regarding the long, narrow snake of the Serpentine with less enthusiasm than she.

“It will be like fairyland out there.” Millicent had no respect for the practical at a time like this. She had crept out through the park to sail on the dawn-lit water alone with George. What place had the literal at such a point? She picked up her skirts to keep them from getting soaked in the dew; this much was merely common sense, which was a totally different thing. No one wanted the wet, heavy fabric flapping around their ankles.

“There’s someone already out,” George said with disgust. And in the broadening light it was quite plain that there was indeed one of the small boats about three yards from the shore, but the figure in it was curiously bent over, as if looking for something in the bottom of the boat by his feet.

Millicent could hardly contain her disappointment. Where was the romance if someone else was present, someone not part of the idyll? One could pretend Hyde Park, in the middle of London, were a wood in some European archdukedom and George a prince, or at least a knight, but some other mundane-minded oarsman would definitely spoil it; apart from the fact that she should not be here, unchaperoned, and a witness was not welcome.

“Maybe he’ll go away,” she said hopefully.

“He’s not moving,” George replied with annoyance. He raised his voice. “Excuse me, sir. Are you quite well?” He frowned. “I can’t see the fellow’s face at all,” he added to Millicent. “Wait here. I shall see if he will be a gentleman and move a little away.” And he strode down towards the bank regardless of getting his shoes soaked, hesitated on the verge, then stumbled to his knees and slid with a violent splash into the water.

“Oh!” Millicent was horrified, painfully embarrassed for him, and having difficulty stifling her intense desire to giggle. “Oh, George!” She ran down the grass to where he was thrashing around in the shallows making a fearful noise and stirring up mud without seeming to regain his feet. Extraordinarily, the man in the boat took no notice whatsoever.

Then in the fast strengthening light, Millicent saw why. She had assumed he was bent forward, as had George. It was not so. His head was absent. There was nothing above his shoulders but the blood-soaked stump of his neck.

Millicent crumpled into total oblivion and fell headlong onto the grass.

“Yes sir,” the constable said smartly. “Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, R.N. Found ’eadless in one o’ them little rowboats on the Serpentine. This mornin’ about dawn. Two young lovers off for a romantic trip.” He invested the word romantic with infinite scorn. “Poor souls fainted clean away—got no stomach for the likes o’ that.”

“Not unnatural,” Superintendent Thomas Pitt said reasonably. “I should find it a very worrying thought if they had.”

The constable quite obviously did not understand him.

“Yes sir,” he said with bland obedience. “The local bobby were called, when the gentleman pulled ’isself together and got out o’ the water. I gather as ’e fell in wi’ the shock o’ the event, like.” His lips twitched very slightly but his voice was carefully ironed of even the suspicion of humor. “Constable Withers, that was ’im what was called, ’is bein’ on duty in the park, like. ’E took one look at the corpse an’ knew as ’e’d got a real nasty one, so ’e sent for ’is sergeant, an’ they looked a bit closer, like.” He drew in his breath, waiting for Pitt to say something.

“Yes?” Pitt prompted.

“That’s when they found ’oo the dead man were,” the constable continued. “ ’Im being an important naval man, and an ‘Honorable,’ like, they thought as it should be someone o’ your rank to ’andle it—sir.” He looked at Pitt with satisfaction.

Pitt was newly promoted to superintendent. He had fought it long because he knew his real skill, which was very considerable, lay in working with people, both with the denizens of the semiunderworld, the poor or the truly criminal, and with the inhabitants of the servants’ quarters, the front parlors, and the withdrawing rooms of the gentry.

Then in the late autumn of last year, 1889, his superior, Micah Drummond, had retired from office in order to marry the woman he had loved ever since the appalling scandal that had ruined her husband and finally taken his life. He had recommended Pitt to fill his place on the grounds that although Pitt was not a gentleman, as Drummond most certainly was, he had the experience of actual police work, at which he was undoubtedly gifted, and had proved himself able to solve even the most delicate cases involving the politically or socially powerful.

And after the fiasco of the Whitechapel murders, still unsolved and perhaps destined to remain so, and the fierce unpopularity of the police, the public lack of faith in them, it was time for a bold change.

So now in the spring of 1890, the dawn of a new decade, Pitt was in charge of the Bow Street station, with special responsibility for sensitive cases which threatened to become explosive if not handled with both tact and extreme dispatch. Hence P. C. Grover was standing in front of him in the beautiful office which he had inherited from Micah Drummond, telling him of the decapitation of Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, knowing that Pitt would be obliged to handle the case.

“What else do you know about it?” Pitt asked, looking up at Grover and leaning back in his chair, although at times like this he still felt it to be Drummond’s chair.

“Sir?” Grover raised his eyebrows.

“What did the medical officer say?” Pitt prompted.

“Died of ’avin’ ’is ’ead cut orf,” Grover replied, lifting his chin a little.

Pitt considered telling him not to be insolent, but he was still feeling his way with the men in his command. He had not worked with them closely before, always having had one sergeant with him at most, more often no one at all. He was regarded more as a rival than a colleague.

They had obeyed Micah Drummond because he was from a distinguished family with private means and had a career in the army behind him, and thus was of a class doubly used to command. Pitt was totally different, a gamekeeper’s son who spoke well only because he had been educated, by grace, with the son of the estate. He had neither the manner nor the appearance of one born to lead. He was tall, but he frequently stood awkwardly. His hair was untidy, even on his best days. On his worst it looked as if he had been blown in by a gale. He dressed with abandon, and kept in his pockets a marvelous assortment of articles which he thought might one day prove handy.

The Bow Street men were slow to get used to him, and he was finding leadership alien to his nature. He was used to disregarding the rules, and being tolerated because he succeeded. Command placed quite different obligations on him and required a stiffer and less eccentric example to be set. Suddenly he was responsible for other men’s orders, their successes and failures, even their physical safety.

Pitt fixed Grover with a cold eye. “Time of death, Constable,” he said levelly. “That would be more instructive to know. And was he killed in the boat or brought there afterwards?”

Grover’s face fell. “Oh, I don’t think we know that, sir. Not yet. Bit of a risky thing to do, though, chop a man’s ’ead orf right there in the park. Could ’ave bin seen by anyone out for a walk.”

“And how many people were out for a walk at that hour, Grover?”

Grover shifted his feet.

“Oh, well, don’t seem as if there were nobody but them two as found ’im. But your murderer couldn’t ’ave counted on that, could ’e.” It was a statement rather than a question. “Could’ve been anyone out for a morning ride,” he went on reasonably. “Or even someone comin’ home late from a party, or a night out, takin’ the air …”

“That is if it was done in daylight,” Pitt pointed out. “Perhaps it was done long before that. Have you found anyone else who was in the park yet?”

“No sir, not yet. We came to report it to you, Mr. Pitt, as soon as we realized as it were someone important.” It was his ultimate justification, and he knew it was sufficient.

“Right,” Pitt agreed. “By the way, did you find the head?”

“Yes sir, it was right there in the boat beside ’im, like,” Grover replied, blinking.

“I see. Thank you. Send Mr. Tellman up, will you.”

“Yes, sir.” Grover stood to attention momentarily. “Thank you, sir.” And he turned on his heel and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

It was less than three minutes before Tellman knocked, and Pitt told him to enter. He was a lean man with a narrow aquiline face, hollow cheeks and a tight sarcastic mouth. He had come up through the ranks with hard work and ruthless application. Six months ago he had been Pitt’s equal, now he was his junior, and resented it bitterly. He stood to attention in front of the large leather-inlaid desk, and Pitt sitting in the easy chair behind it.

“Yes, sir,” he said coldly.

Pitt refused to acknowledge he had heard the tone in Tellman’s voice. He looked across at him with innocent eyes. “There’s been a murder in Hyde Park,” he said calmly. “A man by the name of Oakley Winthrop, Captain the Honorable, R.N. Found a little after dawn in one of the pleasure boats on the Serpentine. Beheaded.”

“Unpleasant,” Tellman said laconically. “Important, was he, this Winthrop?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt said honestly. “But his parents are titled, so we can assume he was, at least in some people’s eyes.”

Tellman pulled a face. He despised those he considered passengers in society. Privilege stirred in him a raw, bitter anger that stretched far back into his childhood memories of hunger, cold, and endless weariness and anxiety, a father beaten by circumstances till he had no pride left, a mother who worked till she was too tired to talk to her children or laugh with them.

“I suppose we will all be trudging holes in our boots so we can get the beggar who did it,” he said sourly. “Sounds like a madman to me. I mean, why would anyone do anything so—” He stopped, uncertain what word he wanted. “Was his head there? You didn’t say.”

“Yes it was. There was no attempt to hide his identity.”

Tellman pulled a face. “Like I said, a madman. What the hell was a naval captain doing in a pleasure boat on the Serpentine anyway?” A smile lit his face quite suddenly, showing a totally different side to his nature. “Bit of a comedown, isn’t it? Fellow like that’d be more used to a battleship.” He cleared his throat. “Wonder if he was there with a woman. Someone else’s wife, maybe?”

“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “But keep such speculation to yourself for the time being. First of all find out all the physical facts you can.” He saw Tellman wince at being told something he considered so obvious. He disregarded the man’s expression and continued. “Get all the material details. I want to know when he was killed, what with, whether it took one blow or several, whether he was struck from the front or the back, left hand or right, and if he was conscious at the time or not …”

Tellman raised his eyebrows.

“And how will they know that, sir?” he inquired.

“They’ve got the head,” Pitt replied. “They’ll know if he was struck first—and they’ve got the body, they can find out if he was drugged or poisoned.”

“Won’t know if he was asleep,” Tellman pointed out sententiously.

Pitt ignored him. “Tell me what he was wearing,” he went on. “And the state of his shoes. Did he walk across the grass to the boat, or was he carried? And you certainly ought to be able to work out whether his head was chopped off there in the boat or somewhere else.” He looked up at Tellman. “And then you can drag the Serpentine to see if you can find the weapon!”

Tellman’s face darkened. “Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“No—but it’s a start.”

“Anyone in particular you want me to take on this job, sir? Being as it’s so delicate?”

“Yes,” Pitt said with satisfaction. “Take le Grange.” Le Grange was a smooth-tongued, rather glib young man whose sycophantic manner irritated Tellman even more than it did Pitt. “He’ll handle the possible witnesses very well.”

Tellman’s expression was vile, but he said nothing. He stiffened to attention for an instant, then turned on his heel and went out.

Pitt leaned back in his chair and thought deeply. It was the first major case he had been in charge of since taking over from Micah Drummond. Of course there had been other crimes, even serious ones, but none within the scope for which he was particularly appointed: those which threatened scandal or tragedy of more than purely private proportions.

He had not heard the name Winthrop before, but then he did not move in society, nor was he familiar with the leading figures in the armed services. Members of Parliament he knew more closely, but Winthrop was not of that body, and if his father ever took his seat in the House of Lords, it had not so far been to sufficient effect for it to have reached public awareness.

Surely Micah Drummond would have reference books for such an occasion? Even he could not have stored in his memory all the pertinent facts of every important man or woman in London.

Pitt swiveled around in the chair and stared at the immaculate bookshelves. He was already familiar with many of the titles. It had been one of the first things he had done on moving in. There it was—Who’s Who. He pulled it out with both hands and opened it on the desk. Captain the Honourable Oakley Winthrop was not present. However, Lord Marlborough Winthrop was written up at some length, more for his heritage than his achievements, but nonetheless the book gave a very fair picture of a proud, wealthy, rather humorless man of middle age whose interests were tediously predictable. He had had a host of respectable minor offices and was related to a wide variety of the great families in the land, some quite distantly, but nevertheless each connection was duly noted. Some forty years ago he had married one Evelyn Hurst, third daughter of an admiral, later ennobled.

Pitt closed the book with a feeling of foreboding. Lord and Lady Winthrop were not likely to be placated easily if answers were slow in coming, or displeasing in their nature. It was probably unfair, but already he had a picture of them in his mind.

Was Tellman right—was a madman loose in the park? Or had Oakley Winthrop in some way brought it upon himself by courting another man’s wife, welshing on his debts, or cheating? Or was he privy to some dangerous secret? These were questions that would have to be asked with subtlety and extreme tact.

In the meantime he would like to have gone to the park and sought the material evidence himself, but it was Tellman’s job, and it would be time wasting as well as impolitic to oversee him in its pursuance.

* * *

Charlotte Pitt was occupied as differently as possible. With Pitt’s promotion had come the opportunity to move to a larger house, one with a garden offering not only a broad lawn and two large herbaceous borders but also a very considerable kitchen garden and three old apple trees, at the moment the gnarled boughs fat with buds for blossom. Charlotte had fallen in love with it the moment she stepped through the French doors of the withdrawing room onto the stone-flagged terrace and seen the garden in front of her.

The house itself needed much work before it was ready to move into, but she could imagine all sorts of wonderful possibilities for it. A hundred times in her mind she had decorated it, hung curtains, found carpets, arranged and rearranged the furniture.

Now the wallpaper was stripped off in many places and the plaster was so damaged as to need gouging out and replacing with new. There were other things missing or broken, large pieces out of cornices, friezes and moldings. The plaster ceiling rose in the dining room was so badly chipped as to need replacing. The hall lamp was missing all its glass, as were several of the gas brackets in other rooms. The mirror on the overmantel in the dining room was spotted across the center and cracked at the edges, and the fireplace in the main bedroom had lost several of its border tiles. There would be a great deal to do, but she was full of enthusiasm, and so far undaunted by the prospect.

She was completely unaware of the murder in Hyde Park. She stood in the middle of the withdrawing room visualizing how splendid it would be when it was all finished. In the house in Bloomsbury they had had only a front parlor, very pleasant in its fashion, but it was a poor thing by comparison with this; or to be more exact, with what this could become. Then she would be able to invite people to dinner—something she had not done before in her married life, with the exception, of course, of immediate family.

Her parents had been quite comfortable—although at the time she had felt it to be barely sufficient. There was never money in hand for as many dresses as she would have wished, or for more than one carriage. But when she had scandalized her friends by marrying a policeman, at the same time as her younger sister, Emily, had married a viscount, both their lives had changed beyond recognition and beyond their power to imagine beforehand.

Then George Ashworth had died, leaving Emily a very rich widow, and later she had married Jack Radley, charming, handsome and virtually penniless. She seemed totally happy, and that was all that mattered. Her seven-year-old son, Edward, now Lord Ashworth, had a baby sister, Evangeline, known as Evie, and Jack was again attempting to gain a seat in Parliament. Under Emily’s cajoling, flattering and persuasion he had found a social conscience and determined to forge himself a career. His first attempt had ended in failure, although, both Emily and Charlotte conceded willingly, a moral victory.

“Excuse me, ma’am …” Charlotte’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of her maid, Gracie, a tiny waif of a girl who had been with her ever since her move to Bloomsbury. Now she was an intelligent and determined eighteen-year-old who had beyond question found her place in life as the confidante and, as of the last case, the assistant to the wife of a detective. The change in her from the child she had been was miraculous. She bristled confidence and appetite for adventure. She was still as thin as a ninepenny rabbit. All the clothes she was given were too long for her and had to be taken up, but her cheeks had color, and she was more than a match for the most impertinent delivery boy or the most uppity servant of anyone else. After all, she had adventures. All they ever did was housework.

“Yes, Gracie?” Charlotte said absently.

“The dustman’s ’ere ’oo said as ’e’d take them broken tiles and get the linoleum up from the kitchen that’s all scuffed and frayed at the edges,” Gracie said busily. “ ’E said that it’d only cost one and sixpence, an’ ’e’d take the rubbish out o’ the back yard too.”

“A shilling,” Charlotte said automatically. “And he can have the broken lamp brackets as well, if he’ll take them down.”

“Yes ma’am.” Gracie whisked out to return less than a moment later with Emily at her heels. Charlotte’s sister came in in a whirl of rose-pink skirts, marvelous sleeves and a fashionably slender waist, not quite as it was before Evie, but still most becoming. Her fair hair sat in an aureole of curls around her face, and her expression was one of amazement.

“Oh Charlotte!” She gazed around and swallowed hard.

Charlotte glared at her.

“It could be … beautiful,” Emily added, then burst into giggles, sinking in a heap of skirts into the old sofa pushed over towards the front windows.

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something furious, then realized how absurd that would be. The room was bare and drab. Old wallpaper hung in ribbons from broken plaster, the windows were dirty and one was cracked, the lamp brackets broken. The old sofa was covered in a dust sheet like a solitary ghost. The rest of the house was no better. The only way to cope was to laugh.

“It will be all right,” she said at length when they had recovered themselves.

“It will have to be replastered, then repapered,” Emily pointed out, “before you can begin to choose new fixtures and fittings.”

“I know that.” Charlotte sniffed, wiped the tears away with her hand. “That will be half the pleasure. I will have reclaimed a disaster and made it into something fine.”

“How very feminine of you, my dear,” Emily said with a broad smile. “So many women I know spend their lives trying to do that—and not only with houses: mostly with husbands. But the trouble with that is you cannot move if it doesn’t work!” She stood up again, absently straightening her skirts. “Show me the rest of this catastrophe. I promise I will try to see what a noble thing it may become. By the way, there has been a fearful murder in Hyde Park, did you know?”

“No, when?” Charlotte led the way to what would become the dining room. “How do you know? Was it in the morning newspapers?”

“No.” Emily shook her head. “I gather the body was only found this morning, on the Serpentine in one of those little boats.” She gazed around her. “This room has nice proportions, except it needs a larger mantel. But you could replace that one quite easily, and put it in the bedroom perhaps? It is too narrow for here. I heard it as we stopped for traffic at the Tottenham Court Road. The newsboys were shouting about it. Some naval officer had his head cut off.”

Charlotte had started towards the window and stopped abruptly, swinging around to face Emily. “His head cut off!”

“Yes. Unpleasant, isn’t it? I suppose Thomas will be in charge of it, because he was a captain, and his parents are Lord and Lady Winthrop.”

“Who are they?” Charlotte asked with sharper interest. She and Emily had first met Pitt when he had investigated the murder of their elder sister, Sarah, and ever since then they had both involved themselves in his more serious cases as much as opportunity permitted, and frequently a great deal more than Pitt would have allowed, had he been consulted before rather than informed when it was too late.

“Oh, neither old money nor new,” Emily replied dismissively. “Not really very colorful, but connected to half the Home Counties in one way or another, and very aware of it.” She shrugged. “You know the sort of person? Never achieved anything in particular, but always wanted to be important. No imagination, absolutely sure they know what they believe about everybody and everything, quite kind in their own way, as honest as the day, and no sense of humor whatsoever.”

“Deadly,” Charlotte said succinctly. “And all the harder because you cannot really dislike them, just be infuriated and bored.”

“Exactly,” Emily agreed, moving towards the door. “You know, I can’t even remember quite what Lady Winthrop looks like. She might be fairish and a little stout, or else she might be that darkish woman who is too tall. Isn’t it silly? Or she might even be the pigeon-chested one whose face I can’t place at all. I’m not usually like that. I can’t afford to be, with Jack hoping to be in Parliament.” She pulled a face. “Just imagine if one addressed the wrong person as the Prime Minister’s wife!” She pulled an even worse face. “Disaster! Even the Foreign Office wouldn’t consider you after that.”

They were in the hallway, and she stopped with a little sigh of appreciation. “I do like your stairs. Now that is really very elegant, Charlotte. This newel post is one of the handsomest I’ve seen. My goodness, it must have taken some carving.” She tilted her head back and followed the line of the banister upwards to the newel at the top, and then along the landing. “Yes, very gracious. How many bedrooms are there?”

“I told you, five, and plenty of space in the attic for Gracie,” Charlotte replied. “Really nice rooms. She can have two, and I’ll keep the box room and a spare one, just in case.”

Emily grinned. “In case what? Another resident servant?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Why not—one day? Do you know anything about the man who was murdered?” She was thinking of Pitt.

“No.” Emily opened her eyes very wide and bright. “But I could find out.”

“I don’t think you should say anything to Thomas yet,” Charlotte said cautiously.

“Oh, I know,” Emily agreed, nodding her head and leading the way up the stairs, caressing the banister rail as she went. “That’s really very nice.” She stopped for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. “That’s nice too. I do like coffering. None of that plasterwork is broken. All it needs is a little paint. Yes, I know to be careful, Thomas is so much more important these days.” She turned and gave Charlotte a radiant smile. “I’m so glad. I like him enormously, I hope you know that.”

“Of course I know that,” Charlotte said warmly. “I’m glad you like the ceiling too. I thought it was rather fine. It gives the hall dignity, don’t you think?”

They reached the landing at the top and began looking at the bedrooms. Emily was joining in the spirit and ignoring the broken tiles in the fireplaces and the peeling paper on the walls.

“Have they set the date for the by-election yet?” Charlotte inquired.

“No, but we know who is standing for the Tories,” Emily replied with a frown. “Nigel Uttley. Highly respected and very powerful. I’m not sure just how much of a chance Jack has, realistically. Of course I don’t tell Jack that.” She smiled ruefully. “Especially after last time.”

Charlotte said nothing. Last time had been so fraught with other pains and tragedies that political failure had seemed almost incidental. Jack had withdrawn, refusing to be compromised or to join the secret society known as the Inner Circle, which would have ensured his acceptance as candidate and the support of a vast hidden network of men with influence, money and an unbreakable bond. But there was also the covenant of secrecy, the preferments offered to members at the expense of outsiders, the promises of protection, lies to conceal, and ostracism and punishment for transgressors. Above all what appalled Jack and frightened Pitt was the secrecy—the doubt, suspicion and fear sown by not knowing who were members, whose loyalties were already spoken for in a dark covenant, which consciences were in bondage even before the choices were framed.

“I assume this is going to be your room?” Emily asked, gazing around the large bedroom with its wide window over the garden. “I like this. Is this the biggest room, or is the front one a trifle wider?”

“I think it is, but it doesn’t matter. I’d sacrifice size for that window,” Charlotte replied without hesitation. “And that room”—she indicated the door to her left—“as a dressing room for Thomas. The front one will do well for a nursery for Daniel and Jemima, and they can have the smaller ones for bedrooms.”

“What color?” Emily looked at the walls, by now totally ignoring the stains and tears.

“I’m not sure. Maybe blue, maybe green,” Charlotte said thoughtfully.

“Blue will be cold,” Emily answered. “Actually, so will green.”

“I like it anyway.”

“What direction are we facing?”

“Southwest,” Charlotte replied. “The afternoon sun comes in the French doors below us in the dining room.”

“Then I daresay it’ll be all right. Charlotte …”

“Yes?”

Emily stood in the middle of the floor, her face puckered. “I know I was rather hard on you when I came back from the country, in fact possibly even unfair …”

“About Mama? You certainly were,” Charlotte agreed. “I don’t know what you expected me to do!”

“I wasn’t there,” Emily said reasonably. “I don’t know what could have been done, but surely something. For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, the man’s not only an actor—and a Jew—but he’s seventeen years younger than Mama!”

“She knows that,” Charlotte agreed. “He’s also charming, intelligent, funny, kind, loyal to his friends, and he seems to care for her very much.”

“I expect all that’s true,” Emily conceded. “But to what end? She can’t possibly marry him! Even supposing he asked her.”

“I know that!”

“She’ll ruin her reputation if she hasn’t done so already,” Emily went on. “Papa will be turning over in his grave.” She swiveled around very slowly. “You could have blue in here if you didn’t have dark furniture.” She looked back at Charlotte. “What are we going to do about her now? Grandmama is beside herself.”

“She’s been in a rage for months,” Charlotte said without concern. “If not years. She enjoys it. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else.”

“But this is different,” Emily protested, her face puckered with concern. “This time she’s right! What Mama is doing is absurd and dangerous. She could find herself quite outside society when it’s all over. Have you even thought about that?”

“Yes, of course I have. And I’ve told her till I’m blue in the face—but it doesn’t make a ha’p’orth of difference. She knows it all, and she considers it worth the price.”

“Then she isn’t thinking clearly,” Emily said tartly, hunching her shoulders a little. “She can’t mean it.”

“I think I would.” Charlotte spoke not so much to Emily as to the view beyond the window. “I think I would rather have a brief time of real happiness, and take the chance, than an age of gray respectability.”

“Respectability isn’t gray!” Emily retorted. Then suddenly her face crumpled into a giggle. “It’s—brown.”

Charlotte shot her a look of swift appreciation.

“All the same,” Emily went on, her eyes steady in spite of her laughter. “The lack of respectability can be very unpleasant, especially when you are older. It can be very lonely to be shut out, whatever color the inside is.”

Charlotte knew it was true, and why Emily had said it. Perhaps in her mother’s place she too would have opted for a brief, painful and glorious romance, but she was not unaware of the bitter price.

“I know,” she said quietly. “And Grandmama will never let her forget it, even if everyone else does.”

Emily gazed around the room thoughtfully.

Charlotte read her thought.

“Oh no!” she said decidedly. “Not here! We haven’t room!”

“No, I suppose not,” Emily agreed reluctantly, then suddenly she smiled again. “Were you thinking of Mama or Grand-mama?”

“Grandmama, of course,” Charlotte responded. “Mama would remain in Cater Street, naturally. It is her house. I’m not sure which would be worse, living with Grandmama goading and complaining all the time, or all by yourself with no one to talk to at all. Sitting every day wondering if anyone will call, and if you dare call on someone else, or if they will all send polite messages to the door that they are not at home, even when you can see the carriages in the drive and know perfectly well that they are—and they know you know.”

“Don’t.” Emily winced as if she had been struck. “I can’t bear to think of it. We’ll simply have to do something!” She looked at Charlotte. “Have you tried appealing to him? If he cares for her at all, he must realize what will happen. Is he a complete fool?”

“He’s an actor.” Charlotte shrugged in a sort of exasperation. “It’s a different world. He may not understand …”

“Well, have you tried to explain to him?” Emily demanded. “For goodness sake, Charlotte!”

“No I haven’t! Mother would never forgive me. Telling her is one thing; telling him is quite another. We have no business to do that.”

“We have every business!” Emily argued heatedly. “For her own sake. Someone’s got to look after her.”

“Emily! Can you hear yourself?” Charlotte demanded. “How would you feel if someone else, whatever their motives or however much they thought it was for your good, stepped in and tried to warn Jack not to marry you for your well-being?”

“That’s quite different.” Emily’s eyes were bright and sharp. “Jack married me. Joshua Fielding won’t marry Mama.”

“I know he did, but Emily, my dearest, Mama might have thought Jack married you for your very considerable fortune.”

“That’s not true!” The hot color burned up Emily’s face.

“I never believed it was,” Charlotte said quickly. “I think Jack is a charming and honest man, but if Mama had thought otherwise, would it have been right for her to interfere—believing it was for your sake?”

“Ah—oh.” Emily stood motionless. “Well …”

“Precisely.” Charlotte led the way to the second bedroom.

“It’s not the same,” Emily said behind her. “There isn’t any possible happy outcome to Mama’s romance.”

“It’s still not right for us to go to Joshua,” Charlotte insisted. “We’ll just have to keep on trying with her. Maybe she’ll listen to you. She certainly took no notice at all of me.” They stopped just inside the doorway. “I think I’ll do this room in yellow. It would be nice and warm. Daniel and Jemima could play up here in the winter, and on wet days. What do you think?”

“Yellow would be very nice,” Emily agreed. “You could put a little green with it to stop it being too sweet.” She looked across the room. “That fireplace needs a lot of mending. In fact you should get rid of it altogether and get another one. Those tiles are dreadful.”

“I told you, I agreed I will move the one up from the withdrawing room.”

“Oh yes, so you did.”

“You will find out about Captain Winthrop, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Emily smiled again with sudden optimism. “I wonder if it will be a case with which we can help. I have missed all the excitement. It seems like ages since we did anything important together.”

By mid-afternoon Pitt could no longer bear being on the sidelines. He collected his hat from the elegant stand by the door. He adjusted his jacket without making it hang any better, and decided he should take out of his pockets at least a ball of string which he no longer needed, two pieces of sealing wax and a rather long pencil, then he went out onto the landing and down the stairs.

“I’m going to see the widow,” he informed the desk sergeant. “What is the address?”

The sergeant did not need to ask him which widow he meant. The whole station had been buzzing with the news since morning.

“Twenty-four Curzon Street, sir,” he said immediately. “Poor lady. I wouldn’t like to ’ave bin the sergeant wot ’ad ter tell ’er. Any death is bad enough, but that’s the kind o’ shock no one should ’ave ter take.”

“No,” Pitt agreed, ashamed of himself for being so grateful he had not been the one to bring the news. That was one benefit of promotion. Now Tellman would do the wretched duties that had been his only a few months ago. Then he shuddered. Tellman’s lantern face was not the one he would have wished bearing tidings of bereavement. He looked too much like an undertaker himself, at the best of times. Perhaps Pitt should have gone after all.

He went out onto the pavement of Bow Street and started north towards Drury Lane and a hansom cab. But whatever he thought of Tellman, unless he proved himself incompetent at the task, he must not rob him of his stewardship. He lengthened his stride with a haste he could not explain.

In Drury Lane he hailed a cab and gave the driver the Winthrops’ address, then settled back for the ride. He was not sure what he could add to the information Tellman would already have gathered, except his own impressions. But sometimes personal judgment was the most valuable element, the one thing no one else could give you, the small voice in the back of the mind which warned to look beyond the obvious.

No one had reported back yet, which did not surprise him. Tellman would leave it till the last possible moment that bordered on insolence but avoided outright insubordination. And Pitt was obliged by honesty to admit he had reported to his own superiors only when he felt he could evade it no longer. He disliked being told how he should conduct his case by someone behind a desk, who had not seen the faces of the men and women involved and knew nothing of their emotions. Much as it annoyed him, he could not justly blame Tellman for doing the same.

So now he was going to do what Micah Drummond had never done; he was on his way to interview the widow on the first day of the case. But it was a sensitive matter. This was the very reason he had obtained preferment instead of Tellman or some other officer brought in from another station. He knew how to treat the gentry with courtesy, and yet still to read their emotions, detect their lies and persist until he found the truth hidden beneath the layers of politics, ritual, subterfuge and pride.

Not a little of his past success was due to Charlotte’s help, and he admitted it freely to himself, if not to the assistant commissioner.

The hansom drew up in Curzon Street, Pitt alighted and paid the driver, then taking off his hat in preparatory courtesy, he mounted the front door steps to number twenty-four and pulled the brass bell knob.

It was several moments before a white-faced butler answered and looked at Pitt almost expressionlessly.

“Good afternoon,” Pitt said very soberly. “Superintendent Thomas Pitt, from Bow Street. I should appreciate a short interview with Mrs. Winthrop.” He produced his card, now with his rank engraved on it as well as his name, and dropped it on the butler’s silver tray. “I understand this is a most distressing time, but she may be able to help find the man who has brought about this tragedy, and speed is of the essence.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler conceded reluctantly. He looked Pitt up and down from his untidy hair to his beautiful boots. At any other time, when not suffering from shock, he might have been harder to override, but today he was not himself. “If you will come to the library, sir, I shall see if it is possible. This way, sir, if you please.”

Pitt followed him across the gracious flagstoned hallway into a very fine library, paneled in oak on one side, with bookshelves on two, and the remaining wall facing the garden, where deep windows were presently partly obscured by a tangle of coral-pink roses richly in bloom. Pitt thought only for the briefest moment of the new house Charlotte was so happy with, its broken plaster and peeling paper, and her profusion of dreams for it. Then he returned to the present, the somber shelves of unread books and the brilliantly patterned carpet, unmarked by the passage of feet. The desk in the corner was immaculate. No dust and no signs of use marred its virgin surface.

What manner of man had Captain Winthrop been? He gazed around the room seeking some clue as to character, some touch of individuality. He saw nothing. It was essentially a masculine place, dark greens and wines, leather upholstery, books, prints of ships on the wall, a heavy carved mantel with bronze statuary of lions at one end and two hunting dogs at the other. There was a heavy Waterford crystal whiskey decanter, a quarter full, on the side table. He had the powerful feeling of being in a room prepared for a man, rather than one a man had chosen for himself.

The door opened and the butler stood in the entrance.

“Mrs. Winthrop will see you, sir, if you care to come to the withdrawing room.”

Pitt left the library with a sense of incompleteness and followed the butler back across the hallway and towards the rear of the house, where the long withdrawing room stretched towards the open lawn and formal rose beds. He had time only to be aware of excellent architectural proportions, spoiled by curtains which were too ornate for the windows, and a heavy carved white-and-gray marble mantel. Wilhelmina Winthrop was dressed entirely in black, as was to be expected, but the totality of it startled him until he realized why. She was a very slender woman, in fact unkind judgment would have said thin. Her fairish hair was swept up in heavy coils, making her neck look even more fragile. Her black gown, swirling around the chair in which she sat, was adorned by a black lace fichu covering her throat up to her chin, and her long sleeves came down in lace points over the backs of her hands, almost to her knuckles. It was the most alarmingly somber garb he had ever seen, and it made her look vulnerable. He thought at first glance that she was much younger than he had supposed, perhaps in her twenties. Then as he approached her more closely he saw the fine lines in her face and the skin around her eyes. He adjusted his judgment. She was nearer her mid-thirties.

Behind her stood a man of medium height, not heavy but of athletic build, thickly curling brown hair, and a subtly aquiline face, the skin of which had been burned to a warm, deep color as from a climate where summer followed summer unceasingly.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said gravely. “May I offer you my deepest sympathies upon your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” she answered; her voice was soft and her diction clear and most pleasing. Her smile was only the barest expression of good manners.

The man behind her frowned. “You must have some more profound purpose than expressing your condolences, Superintendent. I am sure you will understand if we ask that you make this as brief as possible. It is hardly a time when my sister wishes to receive people, however necessary or well-intentioned.”

“Please, Bart.” She put up a hand towards him. “Mr. Pitt, this is my brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. He has come to be with me at this most—most trying time. Please excuse his manner being a trifle abrupt, but he is solicitous for my welfare. He does not mean to be rude.”

“Certainly I shall not trespass on your time any longer than need be, ma’am,” Pitt agreed. There was no easy or pleasant way to do this, even if he came after Tellman and had no news, simply questions to ask. Still they were intrusive and painful when she would almost certainly rather be alone to allow her mind and her heart to absorb the shock and begin to realize her new situation, the reality of death, aloneness, the beginning of grief and the long road which from now on would be without companionship or support.

“Have you any further news for us?” Bart Mitchell asked, leaning forward over his sister’s chair.

“No—I am afraid not.” Pitt was still standing. “Inspector Tellman is busy asking people who were in the park and who might have seen something, and of course looking for material evidence.”

Mina Winthrop swallowed hard, as if she had some obstruction in her throat. “Evidence?” she said awkwardly. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t wish to hear, my dear,” Bart Mitchell said quickly. “The less you have to know about the details the better.”

“I am not a child, Bart,” she protested, but before she could add anything further, he rested both his hands on her shoulders and leaned a little over her, looking at Pitt.

“Of course you are not, my dear, but you are a woman newly bereaved, and it is my privilege to protect you from any further unnecessary pain, not to mention my duty.” This last was to Pitt, and his clear, very blue eyes were level and held an air of challenge.

Mina straightened up a fraction, lifting her chin.

“In what way may we help, Mr. Pitt? If there is anything I can do to assist you to find out who did this to my husband, please be assured I shall do it to the utmost of my ability.”

“What could you possibly know?” Bart said with a shake of his head. “You have already told Inspector Tellman what time you last saw Oakley.” He looked at Pitt again. “Which was late yesterday evening after supper. He said he was going to take a short walk for the good of his health. He never returned.”

Pitt ignored Bart Mitchell. “When did you become concerned by his absence, Mrs. Winthrop?”

She blinked. “When I awoke this morning and came down to breakfast. Oakley normally rises early—earlier than I. I saw that his place was still set at the table and had not been used.” She ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips. “I asked Bunthorne if the master were not well, and Bunthorne said he had not seen him this morning. Naturally I sent him upstairs to check, and he returned saying that Captain Winthrop’s bed had not been slept in.” She stopped abruptly, her face suddenly very pale.

Bart’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

Pitt was going to ask the obvious question, about her and her husband having separate rooms, but it seemed unnecessary. He knew that many families, who could afford to, had separate bedrooms for husband and wife, with connecting doors. It had never appealed to him; he was used to the closeness of smaller spaces, the gentle intimacy, and found in it one of his greatest pleasures. But then few people were as fortunate in their marriages as he, and he knew it. To share even the privacy and vulnerability of sleep with someone one did not love must be a refinement of misery which would destroy the best in either person. And to one accustomed to the freedom to choose whether to have the window open or closed, the curtains drawn or wide, the counterpane this way or that, consideration for another must be a strange and uncomfortable restriction.

“Had that ever happened before?” he asked.

“No—not that I recall. I mean …” She looked at him anxiously. “I mean not without his saying where he would be and when he would be back. He was always most particular about keeping people informed. He was very exact, you know. I expect it comes from his naval training.” She opened her eyes a little wider. “I daresay one cannot command a ship at sea if one allows mistakes, or people to wander off and come back as they please.”

“I imagine not, although it is outside my experience,” Pitt equivocated. “I take it, ma’am, that he was a very precise man, used to keeping an exact order in things?”

“Yes,” Bart said rather quickly, and then closed his mouth in a thin line. “Yes he was.”

“Please do not misunderstand us.” Mina looked at Pitt. She had very fine blue eyes with dark brown lashes. “He was not without humor. I would not like you to think he was a martinet.”

The idea had not occurred to Pitt, but the fact that she denied it raised the question in his mind.

“Did he have friends in the neighborhood upon whom he might have called?” He asked this not because he thought it helpful—Tellman would already have asked—but because he wanted some clue to Winthrop’s character. Was he sociable or reclusive? Whom did he consider his equals?

Mina glanced up at her brother, then back at Pitt.

“We are not aware of any,” Bart replied. “Oakley was a naval captain, Superintendent. He spent a great deal of his time aboard his ship. When he was ashore he preferred to be at home with his wife. Or so it seemed. If he had the sort of acquaintance upon whom he would call alone in the evening, then my sister was not aware of it.”

“He said he was going to take a walk for his health,” she repeated, looking anxiously at Pitt. “He had eaten rather well at dinner. I—I imagine he walked farther than he realized, and found himself in the park, and was set upon by …” She bit her lip. “I don’t know—a madman!”

“That may indeed be the case,” Pitt agreed, although already he was aware of an undercurrent of something else, a sense of fear with the shock and the grief, and other emotions more complex, harder to define. “I expect Inspector Tellman already asked you if you were aware of anyone who might have quarreled with Captain Winthrop or held any grudge against him.”

“Yes—yes, he did ask that.” Mina’s voice was husky and she was very pale. “It is a fearful question. It makes me quite ill to think anyone one knows could have felt so dreadful a hatred as to do such a thing.”

“Superintendent, you are distressing my sister quite unnecessarily,” Bart said in a hard voice. “If either of us knew of such a person, we would have said so. We have nothing we can add to what we have already told your inspector. Now I really think that is enough. We have tried to be civil and as helpful as lies within our power. I would—”

He got no further because there was a knock on the door and a moment later the butler appeared.

“Mrs. Garrick and Mr. Victor Garrick have called, ma’am,” he said somberly. “Shall I tell them you are not receiving visitors?”

“Oh no,” Mina responded with a look of relief. “It is only Thora. I will always see Thora, she is so—so—yes, Bunthorne, please ask them to come in.”

“Really, my dear, do you not think you should rest?” Bart remonstrated.

“Rest? How on earth can I rest?” she demanded. “Oakley was murdered last night.” Her voice choked. “His head—cut off! The last thing on earth I wish is to be left alone in a dark room with my eyes closed and my imagination free! I would immeasurably rather talk to Thora Garrick.”

“If you are quite sure?”

“I have not a doubt in my mind!” she insisted with a rising note close to panic.

“Very well—yes, Bunthorne, ask her to come in,” Bart acceded, a look of pain in his face.

“Very good sir.” Bunthorne withdrew immediately.

A moment later the door opened again and a handsome woman with shining fair hair came in. She was followed immediately by a man in his early twenties with a broad-browed face which at first seemed blandly amiable but on closer regard was of unusual softness and imagination. And yet also there was a certain indiscipline in it, a vulnerability about the mouth, as if he might easily be hurt, and quick to anger. Perhaps he might also be as quick to laugh. It was an interesting face, and Pitt found himself staring, and he had to withdraw his gaze for fear of being offensive.

The woman’s attention went first to Mina Winthrop, full of sympathy, then after acknowledging Bart Mitchell she turned to Pitt, poised either to welcome him or to join battle, depending upon how he was introduced.

Bart seized the initiative. “Thora, this is Superintendent Pitt, from the Bow Street police station. He is in charge of the case.” He looked at Pitt with raised eyebrows. “At least that is what I understand.”

“Correctly,” Pitt said as he inclined his head towards Thora Garrick. “How do you do, ma’am.” He looked at Victor. “Mr. Garrick.”

Victor stared at him out of very wide dark gray eyes. He seemed still to be suffering from shock at the events, or else he was embarrassed by the situation. Pitt thought it quite likely it was the latter. It was never easy to know what to say to the bereaved. When the death is violent and as fraught with darkness as this one, it was doubly so.

“How do you do, sir,” Victor said stiffly, then retired a pace or two to stand a little behind his mother.

“How kind of you to come,” Mina asserted herself, leaning forward with a fragile smile, first to Thora, then to Victor. “Please do sit down. It is a very warm day. May I offer you some refreshment? You will stay a little while, won’t you?” It was more than a polite invitation, it was definitely a request.

“Of course, my dear, if you wish it.” Thora arranged her skirts so as not to crush them, and perched graciously on one of the bright red overstuffed chairs. Victor remained standing behind her, but he adopted a pose in which he looked quite at ease.

“The superintendent was just asking us if Oakley could have called upon anyone in the neighborhood last night,” Mina continued. “But of course we do not know the answer.”

Thora looked at Pitt with wide sharp eyes. She was a very comely woman, fair-skinned, her features regular and full of intelligence and humor and, he thought, a very considerable underlying strength.

“You surely cannot imagine anyone Captain Winthrop knew could have done such a—an insane thing,” she said critically. “That is inconceivable. If you had had even the merest acquaintance with him, such a thought would never enter your head. He was an entirely excellent man….”

Mina smiled nervously. Her hand jerked up as if to her face, then instead touched the black lace at her throat.

Bart winced and his hand tightened on her shoulder, almost as if he were supporting her, even though she was seated.

Victor stood perfectly still, his expression unchanging.

“He was a naval officer,” Thora went on, still looking at Pitt, and apparently unaware of the emotion in the room. “I think you cannot realize what sort of life such men lead, Superintendent. He was not unlike my late husband.” She straightened her shoulders a fraction. “Victor’s father. He was a lieutenant, and would certainly have reached captain had he not been taken from us in so untimely a fashion.” Her face lit with an inner radiance. “Such men have great courage and are powerful both as to character and person. And of course you cannot command in dangerous situations, such as obtain at sea, if you are not an excellent judge of men.” She shook her head to dismiss such a weakness. “Captain Winthrop would not have kept the acquaintance of anyone of such violence and instability as to attack another person in so heinous a fashion. He must have been set upon by lunatics, that is the only possible answer.”

“I was not imagining it to be an acquaintance, ma’am,” Pitt said, not entirely truthfully. “I was wondering if anyone else might have seen him, and thus know where he was and at what time he was last seen alive.”

“Oh—I see,” she conceded. Then she frowned. “Not that I understand how that would help. There can hardly be hordes of criminal lunatics in Hyde Park. I know London is in a fearful state.” Her eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “There is anarchy everywhere, talk of sedition and rebellion, and Lord knows, enough trouble in Ireland, what with the Fenians and the like, but one may still walk safely in the better streets of London! Or at least one had supposed so.”

“I’m sure one can, my dear,” Mina murmured. “This is all a nightmare. I still think it may have been some sort of hideous accident—or foreigners perhaps.” She looked at Pitt. “I have heard that the Chinese take opium, and it does all sorts of—well …”

“It sends them to sleep,” Bart contradicted. “It doesn’t make them violent.” He glanced at Pitt. “Is that not so, Superintendent?” He did not wait for an answer but continued to speak to Mina. “No, I think, quite frankly, that it is someone from Oakley’s ship who has had a quarrel with him and has maybe drunk too much and lost his temper and his self-control. I have known drink, particularly whiskey, to produce uncharacteristic violence.”

Mina shivered. “I suppose you could be right.” Her eyes did not leave Pitt’s face. “I cannot help you, Superintendent. Oakley never discussed his professional life with me. He—he thought it would bore me, I suppose. Or that I would not understand.” A shadow of regret or embarrassment crossed her face. “I daresay he was right. It is an area of life about which I know nothing.”

Bart muttered something under his breath.

Victor flashed a sudden smile at Mina.

“You should not mourn that, Aunt Mina. My father talked about it incessantly, and believe me, it was only interesting the first time, and that was so long ago I cannot remember it anymore.”

“Victor!” Thora’s voice was full of surprise and reproach. “Your father was a great man! You should not speak lightly of him in that way. He set a fine example for all of us, in every kind of moral excellence.”

“I’m sure we all know Lieutenant Garrick was a very fine man,” Mina said soothingly, glancing up at Pitt. Then she smiled at Victor. “But I do understand even the finest people can now and again become tedious when one has heard a story before. And familiarity can occasion a certain loss of respect. It is one of the small crosses that families have to bear, my dear.”

Victor’s face tightened, the muscles in his smooth jaw setting hard and his eyes looking far away.

“You are quite right, Aunt Mina. Being boring is a very slight thing, hardly a sin at all, just a misfortune. If I’m going to criticize I should reserve it for the sins that really matter.”

“Better still not to speak about them at all.” Thora nodded, apparently satisfied.

Pitt would have liked to interpose, but there was no way he could ask Victor what sins he had in mind without being so obvious he would receive no useful answer. Anyway, Oakley Winthrop would hardly have been murdered because he was a bore—of whatever proportions. He turned to Mina.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Winthrop, you would give me the names and addresses of any of the naval men Captain Winthrop knew, and whom he might have seen recently; any, perhaps, who live in this part of London.”

Bart Mitchell looked up keenly.

“A good idea. If there were a quarrel, some seaman who imagined a grievance, they may well know of it. There may even have been a court-martial or something of that sort. Someone dismissed, or punished severely, perhaps some event that seemed an injustice …”

“Do you think so?” Mina said quickly, moving around in her seat to look up at him rather than twist her neck. “Yes, that does seem a reasonable answer, doesn’t it?” She looked back. “Mr. Pitt?”

“We shall certainly investigate it,” he agreed.

Thora looked uncertain. “Do you really think naval officers would behave in such a way?” She shook her head. “I cannot imagine it. They are highly trained, used to command and to self-discipline.”

“They can still lose their tempers like anyone else.” Victor pushed out his lip and stared straight ahead of him. He opened his mouth as if to continue, then changed his mind and stood tight-lipped.

“Oh that’s nonsense!” Thora said sharply. “They are not like anyone else. If they behaved in such a way, Victor, they would not be raised to command, far less retain it.” Her voice gathered conviction. “You should have gone into the navy. I’m sure a fine career would have been open to you. You have all the skills, and your father’s name was highly enough honored that they would have given you every chance.”

Victor’s expression closed over, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

“I think that’s a little harsh, Thora,” Bart said quietly. “Architecture is an honorable profession, and it is surely a sin to waste a real talent. And there is no doubt Victor is gifted. His drawings are very fine indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell,” Victor said with cold resentful calm. “But unfortunately that is not seen as a brave and magnificent thing to do.”

“Don’t be foolish, dear,” Thora said with a forced smile, the patience in her voice dying before she reached the second sentence. “Of course it is. It is just … uncertain. And we have such a fine naval tradition in our family, it would have pleased your father so much. Tradition is important, you know. It is the backbone of our country. It is what makes us English.”

Victor did not reply.

Mina looked from one to another of them. The others seemed momentarily to have forgotten Pitt.

“I expect he would have been just as pleased with a fine building,” she offered tentatively. “And certainly he could only have been pleased, listening to you play. I wonder: Victor dear, would you play for us—when we have a service of remembrance for Oakley? I should find it so uplifting. And you are almost family—after all, poor Oakley was your godfather.”

Victor’s face softened immediately and his smile was beautiful, his eyes bright.

“Of course, Aunt Mina I should love to. Tell me what you would like and I shall be honored to play it for you.”

“Thank you, my dear. I shall think on the matter and let you know.” She turned to Pitt, again moving her head at a curiously rigid angle. “Victor plays the cello quite marvelously, Mr. Pitt. You have never heard anything lovelier. He seems to make the strings laugh and cry like a human voice. He can wring any passion from them he wishes, and take your heart with it.”

“That is indeed a talent that it would truly be a sin to waste,” Pitt said sincerely. “I would a great deal rather make music than fight battles at sea.”

Victor looked at him curiously, his broad brow slightly puckered with doubt and interest, but he said nothing.

Thora was gracious enough not to argue the point further. She took up the thread of her original purpose in coming.

“Is there anything we can do to help you, dear?” she asked Mina. “No doubt there will be lots of arrangements in due course. If I can assist, lend you my cook, or help with invitations or letters, please let me know.”

“How kind of you,” Mina said with a smile of gratitude. “Even your company would be most welcome. It is such a grim task to perform alone. I admit I have barely thought of such things yet. My mind is still quite stupid with shock.”

“Of course, my dear,” Thora said quickly. “Anyone’s would be. How you are bearing up at all is a miracle. You are extraordinarily brave. You are worthy of the great sisterhood of naval widows that stretches back through history. Oakley would be proud of you.”

A look of profound, unreachable emotion crossed Bart Mitchell’s dark face.

Victor let out his breath very slowly.

“Did Captain Winthrop have any other family, apart from his parents?” Pitt asked in the silence.

Mina’s attention jolted back to the present.

“Oh no—no, just Lord and Lady Winthrop.” She used their titles, and Pitt had the impression that was how she thought of them, rather than merely a formality she was pursuing because he was not of their social standing.

“There will be his ship, of course,” Bart offered. “But I will take care of that. Although with the newspapers writing as they do, no doubt they will all know by now anyway. Still, a notification from the family would be a courtesy, I suppose.” He pulled a small face. “Oh, I forgot, Superintendent, you wished a note of the other officers who live in the area. I believe he has some record of those with whom he kept in touch, somewhere in his desk in the library. If you wait a few moments I will fetch it for you.” And excusing himself to Thora Garrick, he left the room.

“If you will forgive me, Superintendent.” Thora turned to Pitt with a faint flush in her cheeks. “I do not wish to appear to tell you your business, but you will learn nothing of poor Captain Winthrop’s death here. You should be out in the streets or asking in the asylums if anyone has broken out. Surely a person who has committed such an act must be plain to observe. He cannot be sane in any sense of the word.” She raised her fair eyebrows. “You will be able quite easily to find at least one person who has seen him. Possibly several.”

Victor bit his lip and stared at the ceiling.

Mina looked at Pitt.

“It is possible, ma’am, and we will certainly try,” Pitt replied. “But I do not hold out a great deal of hope. Madmen do not all have wild hair and staring eyes. I am afraid many of them look as normal as you or I most of the time.”

“Really?” Thora said with cool disbelief. “I would have thought after an act like this he must be quite easy to see. No one could do what has been done and look like an ordinary person.”

Pitt did not argue, there was no point, and he was spared the necessity of an answer by Bart Mitchell’s returning with an address book which he held out in his hand.

“There you are, Superintendent. I think it may prove very useful. There is a full list of his ship’s company and their home addresses. The more I think of it, the more I agree you are right, and that it is probably some quarrel or fancied injustice which someone has brooded upon, perhaps drunk too much, and temporarily lost all reason.” His face brightened. “And that would account for the weapon. After all, it is not inconceivable that a naval officer might have in his possession a cutlass or some such sword.” He looked hopeful.

Mina put both her hands up to her face.

Victor let out his breath in a little gasp and straightened himself as if he had momentarily lost his balance.

“Really, Bart,” Thora said reprovingly. “I am sure you did not mean to, but you are being rather indelicate, my dear. It is a most distressing thought, and one we do not need to pursue. I am sure the superintendent is much more used to this kind of matter, and we do not need to point the way for him.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.” Bart was contrite. He turned to his sister. “Mina, my dear, I do beg your pardon.” Then he looked at Pitt. “I don’t think there is anything else we can do for you, Superintendent. If you will be good enough to leave us, I would like to take care of my sister and begin whatever arrangements are most advisable in the circumstances.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “Thank you for sparing me so much of your time. Good day, Mrs. Winthrop, Mrs. Garrick, Mr. Garrick.” And he inclined his head very slightly and took his leave, collecting his hat from the pale-faced butler in the hallway before stepping out into the sharp spring sunshine. His mind whirled with impressions of grief, anxiety, close family pain, and something else he could not as yet grasp clearly enough to name.

Later Pitt performed that other necessary but most disagreeable task at the outset of any such investigation: he visited the mortuary to look for himself at the body of Oakley Winthrop. He did not expect it to tell him anything that he could not have deduced from Tellman’s report. But there was always the remote chance that he would observe something, even gather some impression, however faint, which later would clarify into meaning.

He hated mortuaries, their very bareness smelled sour and sickly and there was always a chill, even in summer. He found himself shivering as he told the attendant his purpose. There had been no need to give his name, he was already only too familiar.

“Oh, yes sir,” the attendant said cheerfully. “I bin expectin’ yer. Thought as this one’d bring yer ’ere. Nasty, it is. Very nasty.” And turning on his heel, he led Pitt briskly to the room where the body was laid out under a sheet, its form unfamiliar, inhuman without the bump where one looked for the head. “There y’are, Mr. Pitt, sir!” He whipped off the sheet with the air of a conjurer producing flowers from a hat.

Pitt had seen many corpses before, and each time he tried to prepare himself, and as always, failed. He felt a sinking in his stomach and a strange, slightly dizzy sensation in his head and throat. The remains of Oakley Winthrop lay naked and very white on the marble slab of the table. Without a head, a face, he seemed without dignity, even without humanity.

“What have you done with his head?” Pitt said involuntarily, then wished he had not. It exposed the rawness of his emotion.

“Oh …” the attendant said absentmindedly. “I put it on the bench. I suppose I’d better put ’im all together.” He went to the bench in question and carefully picked up a large object covered with a cloth, unwrapped it dextrously and brought it over to Pitt. “There y’are, sir. That’s all of ’im.”

Pitt swallowed. “Thank you.”

He looked conscientiously, avoiding nothing, but he did not learn any more than he already knew from Tellman’s report, and what the coroner would have said in time. Oakley Winthrop had been a big man, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscular but now running to softness and the beginning of fat. He looked well fed, smooth, his hands very clean. There were no marks or bruises on him at all, except the lividity Pitt had expected from the natural settling of blood in a corpse when its heart no longer pumped. There was no other discoloration, no breaking of the skin. His hands were immaculate, nails unbroken.

Then he looked at the head. The hair was sandy brown and clipped short. Across the top of the scalp there was hardly any at all. He did not try it, but he knew it would be impossible to pick it up that way. He turned to the features. They were unremarkable, and without expression or life it was hard to guess what character they had betrayed. He could not detect the marks of humor or imagination, but it was unfair to judge.

Finally he forced himself to look at the wound, if one could call a complete severing such a thing. It was fairly clean, done by a simple, very powerful blow with some very sharp weapon, possibly designed for the purpose. It might have been a person of great strength, or alternatively someone perfectly balanced and striking from a considerable height, and using the force of weight and a long swing, as with a broadax.

The smell of the place was catching in his throat, and he was very cold.

“Thank you. That’s all, at least for now.”

“Yes, Mr. Pitt. Want ter see ’is clothes? ’E were dressed very smart, like; naval captain, they say. Nice uniform. Pity about the blood. Never seen so much in all me life.”

“Anything in his pockets?”

“Only what yer’d expect, a little money, letter from ’is wine merchant, that’s ’ow we knew ’is name, I reckon. A few keys, reckon wine cupboard or desk or the like; domestic anyway. ’Andkerchief, couple o’ callin’ cards, cigar cutter. Nothing interestin’, no threatening letters.” He smiled sepulchrally. “Got another nasty one, Mr. Pitt. I reckon there’s a madman loose somewhere.”

“Do you,” Pitt said dryly. “Well cover him up and let us know when the coroner has been.”

“Yes sir. Good night sir!”

“Good night.”

Pitt arrived home tired and still unable to shake from himself the smell of the mortuary. He let himself in the door and took his boots off before going along to the warmth and light of the kitchen.

Charlotte did not turn around immediately; she was busy stirring a steaming pan on the large black cooking range.

“Hungry?” she asked without looking at him.

He sat down wearily at the scrubbed wooden table, letting the warmth surround him and breathing in the odor of the clean linen, flour, cooking, the coal and heat of the range, the well-washed floor.

She swung around, opened her mouth to speak, then saw his face.

“What?” she said gently. “Something bad, I can see it.”

“Murder,” he replied. “A beheading, in Hyde Park.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath, pushing her hair off her brow. It was bright like polished chestnuts in the lamplight. “Soup?”

“What?”

“Soup?” she repeated. “Some hot soup and bread? You look cold.”

He smiled and nodded, beginning to relax.

She opened the lid of the pot on the range and ladled some broth out into a dish. She knew he was too overwrought, too clenched with chill and emotion to eat yet. She placed it in front of him, with fresh bread and a pat of butter, then sat down again and waited for him to tell her. It was not courtesy or any form of kindness, he knew that. She would be intensely interested, she always was. No pretense was necessary.

Briefly, in between spoonfuls of broth, he told her.