Hyde Park Headsman

2

“YES SIR?” Tellman stood in front of Pitt’s desk early the next morning, his face was hard and bleak as stone, his eyes focusing somewhere over Pitt’s left shoulder. “Didn’t come back in time to report to you, sir. Half past ten, it was. You’d gone home.”

“What have you learned?” Pitt asked. He had done this to Drummond too many times himself to be irritated by Tellman’s implied criticism.

“Far as the doc can judge, he died some time before midnight,” Tellman answered. “Not sure exactly. Maybe eleven or so. Not much blood in the boat, so it probably wasn’t there. In fact, unless he washed it out, it couldn’t have been.”

“Shoes?” Pitt asked, imagining carrying a headless body across the grass to the Serpentine before midnight when there were still late partygoers returning home and several hansoms up and down Knightsbridge, any of them liable to let off a fare for a midnight walk.

“Grass on them, sir,” Tellman said expressionlessly. “Several pieces.”

“And when was the park grass last cut?” Pitt asked.

Tellman’s nostrils flared very slightly and his mouth pinched in. “I’ll find out. But it doesn’t matter. He didn’t walk across it without his head.”

“Maybe he was brought in another boat,” Pitt suggested, as much to annoy Tellman as because he thought it a serious possibility.

“What for?” Tellman’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Doesn’t make any sense. What’s different about one boat from another? And not easy to lift a corpse in a boat. Turn yourself over as like as not.” He smiled sourly, his eyes meeting Pitt’s for the first time. “His clothes were quite dry, except a very slight damp in one or two places from the dew. But dry as a bone underneath … sir.”

Pitt conceded all that without comment.

“How deep is the water at the edge of the Serpentine?” he asked contentiously.

Tellman took his point instantly. “Not more than just above the knee,” he agreed, then the smile came back to his lips. “But kind of noticeable, don’t you think, to walk back across the park soaked to the thighs? People might remember that—dangerous.”

“People might remember seeing a man having his head cut off too,” Pitt said with an answering smile. “Tends to suggest there was no one around. What do you think yourself?”

That was a question Tellman was not prepared for. He wanted to argue, to mock. His long face tightened and he looked at Pitt with dislike.

“Too early to say … sir.”

“Well when you’ve ruled out the impossible, what’s left?” Pitt insisted. “Specifically!”

Tellman took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

Pitt waited.

“He was killed somewhere farther along the Serpentine, which we haven’t found yet,” Tellman replied. “And taken to where we found him in the boat. I’ve got Bailey and le Grange looking all along the banks now. I suppose someone could have brought him over the grass in some way. A trap or a cart maybe, but it would be a dreadful risk, not thought out…” He stopped, waiting for Pitt to ask the question that had occurred to both of them.

“Any feeling as to whether it was planned or a sudden rage?” Pitt put it into words.

“Too early,” Tellman replied with a faint gleam in his eyes. “Might be clever thinking, might be luck. Know more when we’ve covered all the bank, or nothing. Looks clever, so far. I’ll tell you this, sir—it doesn’t look like any chance madman to me. And we did check, there’s been no maniacs escaped from Bedlam or anywhere else. And we’ve no record of a crime like it before.”

“Have you got the medical examiner’s report yet?”

“There’s a wound on the head,” Tellman answered. “He was probably hit to stun him before he was beheaded. Not hard enough to kill, just rob him of his senses for a while.” He looked at Pitt candidly at last. “Looks careful and nasty, doesn’t it … sir.”

“Yes it does. Is that all?”

Tellman opened his eyes wide, waiting for Pitt to continue.

“There was nothing on the rest of the body, so far as I could see,” Pitt said patiently. “No bruises, no scratches on his hands or knuckles. What about his clothes? I didn’t see them. Are they torn or scuffed? Green stains, mud?”

“No,” Tellman said flatly. “No. He didn’t put up a fight. Nothing at all.”

“How tall does he estimate him to have been—with his head? Six feet?”

“About that, as near as we can judge—and big, broad chested.”

“I know. I saw him. And yes, it does look nasty,” Pitt agreed. “I think we need to know a great deal more about Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop.”

Tellman’s face split into a grin.

“That’s why it’s your case, Mr. Pitt. The powers that be reckon as you’re good at that sort of thing. You’d better go and mix with the Honorable Winthrops and their kin. See who hated the good captain, and why.” He stood still in front of Pitt’s desk, amused and sharp with resentment. “We’ll get on with finding witnesses and that sort of regular police work. Will that be all, sir?”

“No it won’t.” Pitt kept the dislike out of his voice with intense difficulty. He must remember he was in command; he had no business indulging in personal irritations and pettiness. He forced it out of his mind. “What did the medical examiner say about a weapon? I assume you haven’t found anything or you would have said so.”

“No sir, nothing yet.” He preempted Pitt’s repeating the orders. “We’ll drag the Serpentine, of course, but makes sense to look in the easier places first.”

“What did the medical examiner tell you?”

“Clean cut Must have been quite a heavy weapon to do that in one blow, and with a very sharp blade. Either an ax with a broad head, or more likely a sword of some sort, again a big one, a cutlass or the like.”

With a wave of sickening memory Pitt saw again in his mind the severed stump of neck, and smelled the overwhelming carbolic and wet stone.

“Or a meat cleaver?” he suggested with a husky voice.

Tellman had got Pitt’s vision. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face for not having mentioned it himself. “Yes—or that. Anyway, we’ll know if we find it.”

“When were the latest witnesses you could trace, so far?” Pitt went on.

Tellman looked at him expressionlessly. “How would you suggest we go about that, sir? Not easy to know who crosses Hyde Park of an evening. Could be anyone in London—or out of it, for that matter. Visitors, foreigners …” He left all the possibilities trailing in the air.

“Cabbies,” Pitt said dryly. “They have areas.” He saw Tellman’s face flush, but continued. “Post a man on the paths and on Rotten Row, and along Knightsbridge, and see who passes that way this evening. Some people do things regularly.”

“Yes sir.” Tellman stood very stiffly. It was common-sense police work, and he knew it. “Naturally that will be done, sir. Is that all?”

Pitt thought for a moment. It was his responsibility to set the tone of their relationship and to keep command of it, but he had never considered it could be so difficult. The man had a far more powerful personality than he had imagined. One could order his acts but his attitude was beyond reach, as was his ability to poison the minds of all the other men. Of course there were punishments available, but that would be clumsy, and in the end rebound on Pitt. Drummond had managed it. He had balanced all their differing natures and skills and made them an efficient whole. Pitt must not be beaten when he had little more than begun.

“For the moment,” he replied levelly. “Let me know when you make any progress with witnesses.”

“Yes sir,” Tellman acceded, then turned on his heel and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Pitt sat back in the chair and thought for a moment, hesitating before putting his feet up on the desk. It was not as comfortable as he had expected, but it was a feeling of command and self-indulgence which was very satisfying. He began to review their knowledge to date, and all of it suggested Winthrop had been murdered not by some chance madman, or by a robber, not that he had ever thought that likely. The only conclusion consistent with what had emerged was that he had been attacked by someone he knew, someone from whom he was expecting no threat. It might be a colleague or a social acquaintance. It was more likely to be a member of his close family or immediate friends. Until Tellman returned with more physical evidence, he should begin to look for motive.

He swung his feet off the desk and stood up. He could accomplish nothing here, and the sooner this was cleared up the better. Already the newspapers were publishing black headlines about the murder and Winthrop’s name was on everyone’s lips. In a day or two they would be demanding results and asking what the police were doing.

Two hours later Pitt was in the train to Portsmouth, sitting beside the window watching the countryside rush past him in vivid green with giant trees beginning to bud for heavy leaf and the bare branches of the hazels already veiled in a soft mist of color. Willows leaned over water trailing streamers of soft, gauzy, green like women bent forward with clouds of hair around them. Flocks of birds followed the slow plows, wheeling and diving after the worms in the turned earth.

Another three hours and he was standing in a small room close to the Royal Naval Dockyard, awaiting the arrival of Lieutenant Jones, second in command to the late Captain Winthrop. He had already spoken with the harbormaster and learned nothing of value. Everyone was shocked and could only repeat trite expressions of grief and outrage, and the sort of eulogizing remarks which they no doubt felt appropriate, but were what they would have said of anyone.

The door opened and a slender man in his late thirties came in. He was dressed in uniform and carried his hat in his hand.

“Good afternoon, sir. Lieutenant Jones. How may I be of service?” He stood to attention and looked at Pitt anxiously. He was clean-shaven with light eyebrows and fair hair receding considerably. It was a face where strength was not immediately apparent, and only after Pitt had spoken with him for several minutes did he gain any sense of his inner resolve.

“Superintendent Pitt,” Pitt introduced himself. “I regret intruding at a time which must be very difficult for you, but I am sure you will appreciate that you may be able to give me information which will help us find who is responsible for Captain Winthrop’s death.”

“I cannot imagine how, but of course I will give you any assistance I can,” Jones acquiesced, remaining at attention. “What is it you wish to know?” His blue eyes showed total confusion.

Deliberately Pitt sat down in the hard-backed, wooden-armed chair beside the table, and invited Jones to sit as well.

Lieutenant Jones looked a trifle surprised, recognizing that Pitt intended the interview to be of length.

“How long have you served with Captain Winthrop?”

“Nine years, altogether,” Lieutenant Jones replied, taking the chair opposite Pitt and crossing his legs. “I—I suppose I knew him pretty well, if that is what you are going to ask.”

Pitt smiled. “It is. Please bear in mind that your loyalty to Captain Winthrop lies not only in speaking well of him but in telling the truth so that whoever murdered him is caught—” He stopped, seeing the surprise in Jones’s face.

“Surely it was robbery, wasn’t it?” Jones’s brow puckered in consternation. “I had assumed it was some criminal lunatic loose in the park. It is inconceivable it was anyone who knew him, which seems to be what you’re suggesting. Forgive me if I have misunderstood you, Superintendent.”

“No, your understanding is both exact and swift.” Pitt smiled very slightly. “There is some evidence to suggest that he was taken completely by surprise.” He waited for Jones’s reaction.

It was what he had expected. Jones looked startled, then dubious, then very grave as the full implication reached him.

“I see. And you have come to ask me if I know of anyone who may have held a grudge against him.” He shook his head. “I don’t. That is the simple answer. He was a popular man, Superintendent, open, candid, of remarkably good humor, friendly without being overfamiliar, and he did not gamble or run up debts he could not pay. He was certainly not an unjust commander, as no doubt you will ask me. I know of no man who had a quarrel with him.”

“Are you speaking of officers, Lieutenant, or do you include ordinary seamen as well?”

“What?” Jones’s eyes widened. “Oh. Well, I suppose I did mean officers. He would hardly know seamen personally. But you mean some sort of a grudge?”

“An injustice, real or imagined,” Pitt elaborated.

Jones looked very doubtful. He shifted a little in his chair. “Most ordinary seamen, Superintendent, take their punishment resolutely and with reasonably good grace.” He smiled weakly. “We don’t keelhaul anymore you know. Discipline is not barbaric, nor is it resented on the whole. No, I really cannot imagine that any man would be—absurd—ill-balanced enough to pursue Captain Winthrop up to London and follow him to the park and do such a thing.” Again he shook his head. “It really would be quite preposterous. No, I am sure beyond any doubt that that is not what happened. As to a fellow officer, I…” He lifted one shoulder fractionally. “I know of no quarrel whatsoever. I suppose jealousy is not inconceivable, but it is highly unlikely. The whole thing is a mystery to me.”

“Jealousy?” Pitt asked. “Professional rivalry, you mean? Or personal jealousy, over a woman perhaps?”

Jones’s face showed surprise. “Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I really don’t know, Superintendent. I am struggling in the dark. If you are correct and it was not a madman or a gang of robbers, then one has to assume it was someone he knew. Please understand, I knew Oakley Winthrop very well. I worked with him for nearly a decade. He was an exemplary officer and a fine man.” He leaned forward. A gull swooped past the window, crying. “Not only honest but genuinely likable,” Jones said earnestly. “He excelled in sports, he played the piano and had a beautiful voice and sang for everyone’s pleasure. He had a rich sense of humor, and I’ve heard him set the whole mess rocking with laughter.”

“Sometimes a dangerous weapon,” Pitt said thoughtfully.

“Oh no.” Jones shook his head. “He was not a wit, if that is what you are thinking. He didn’t make mock of people. It was a very robust, simple sort of fun. Harmless. You are not picturing the man at all, Superintendent, if I may say so. He was uncomplicated, bluff even …” He stopped, seeing Pitt’s expression. “You disagree?” He leaned back in his chair again. “You have been misinformed, I assure you.”

“No one is uncomplicated,” Pitt replied with a wry smile. “But I accept what you say. I have formed no impression of him at all yet.”

Jones’s lips twitched very slightly. “If Captain Winthrop had a secret life he hid it with a subtlety and brilliance he did not display in his ordinary way. Believe me, I do wish I could offer anything of assistance, but I don’t know where to begin.”

“Was he popular with women as well?” Pitt asked.

Jones hesitated. Again the sounds of the yard intruded, the clank of chains, the creak of straining ropes as the water rose and fell, timber against timber, men shouting, and always the mew of the gulls. “No, not as much as perhaps I might have suggested,” Jones went on. “Inadvertently, I mean. The sort of party I was referring to was strictly officers, not women. He was a seaman. I don’t think he found the company of women easy.” He blushed a delicate pink and his eyes moved away from Pitt. “One has so little social life, one gets out of practice in the sort of light conversation suitable for women.”

Pitt had a vivid picture in his mind of a broad, blunt-faced man, hearty, outwardly confident, totally in command, quick to laughter on the surface, but underneath the superficial bonhomie, perhaps filled with darker emotions, fears, self-doubts, even guilt, a man who spent most of his life in a totally masculine world.

Had he a mistress? He looked at the fair, earnest face opposite him. Lieutenant Jones would not tell him even if he knew. But if it were some love or hate here in Portsmouth, would they have followed him to London, rather than committing the crime here?

“Lieutenant Jones, when did Captain Winthrop leave for London?”

“Er—ten days ago,” Jones replied, watching Pitt’s face again.

It was not necessary for either of them to point out that a quarrel in Portsmouth ten days ago was not likely to have resulted in a violent murder in London nine days afterwards.

“All the same,” Pitt went on. “I’d like you to tell me all you can of his last few days here, whom he saw, anything out of the ordinary that was said or done. Have there been any unusual disciplinary decisions in the last few months?”

“Nothing involving Captain Winthrop,” Jones replied, still a small pucker between his brows. “You are mistaken, Superintendent. The answer to this tragedy does not lie in anything that happened here.”

Pitt was inclined to believe him, and after he had pursued one or two more questions he thanked Lieutenant Jones and excused himself, but he still remained in Portsmouth for several more hours, asking more questions, seeing the local police, public house landlords, even a brothel keeper, before catching his train back to London.

The following morning he found Tellman waiting for him. “Good morning, sir. Learn anything in Portsmouth?” he asked, his hard, bright eyes searching Pitt’s face.

“A little,” Pitt replied, going up the stairs with Tellman behind him. “He left there eleven days ago. Nine days before he was killed. Doesn’t seem likely anyone from there followed him up. Most of his closest associates are accounted for that night anyway.”

“Not surprising,” Tellman said bluntly as Pitt opened his office door and went in. “Could have sent le Grange down to find that out.” He closed the door and stood in front of Pitt’s desk.

Pitt sat down and faced him. “Send him down to check on what everyone says,” he agreed. “I wanted to find out about Winthrop himself.”

“Cheerful sort of person, according to his neighbors,” Tellman said with satisfaction. “Always got a good word. Kept to himself most of the time, family man. Liked his home when he was not at sea.”

“Scandal?”

“Not a breath. Model gentleman in every way.” Tellman looked faintly smug.

“And what have you learned?” Pitt asked, opening his eyes wide. “Where was he killed? Have you got the weapon?”

The satisfaction died in Tellman’s face, and his lips tightened.

“Haven’t found the place yet. Could have been anywhere. We’ve looked for the weapon. We’ll drag the Serpentine tomorrow.” He lifted his head a little. “But we have found several witnesses. Couple of lovers were walking down the path at half past ten. He wasn’t there then. It was still light enough to see that much quite clearly. Cabby going along Knightsbridge towards Hyde Park corner at midnight empty, on his way home, and going pretty slow, saw two people walking along Rotten Row, and is certain both were men. He didn’t see anybody on the water then, although of course it was dark and he was some way from the Serpentine, but there was a good moon.”

“And …” Pitt prompted.

“And another gentleman came home in his own carriage at two in the morning and passed the same way, and saw what he took to be a boat drifting,” Tellman said, staring at Pitt.

“Sober?” Pitt asked.

“He says so.”

“And your judgment?”

“Well, he was certainly sober enough when I spoke to him.”

“Did you find him, or did he come to you?”

Tellman’s face tightened again. “He came to us. But he’s a gentleman. I meant the word exact. Banker in the City.”

“Where had he been that he was away from home at two in the morning?”

Tellman’s shoulders tightened.

“I didn’t ask, sir. I gathered it was private business, an assignation maybe. It isn’t done to press gentlemen of that sort as to where they’ve been, Mr. Pitt. Gets their backs up to no purpose.”

Pitt heard the insolence in his voice and saw the satisfaction of contempt in his face.

“I suppose you did check that he is who he said he is?” he asked.

“Can’t see that it matters,” Tellman replied. “He saw a boat on the water at two o’clock. It’s not police business if he gives us the right name or not—or where he’d been. If gentlemen go around bedding other gentlemen’s wives, that’s their way, and nothing to do with our case. He was a gentleman, that I know. You don’t have to be a detective to tell the difference.”

“And of course a gentleman couldn’t have killed Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop!” Pitt said sarcastically. “If this informant of yours had a good voice, good manners and clean shoes, then it couldn’t have been he who committed murder….”

Tellman’s face flushed a dull red. He glared at Pitt and remained silent.

“We’ll assume it’s the truth unless we find otherwise,” Pitt said pleasantly. “That’s a step forward. What did you find in the boat?”

“No blood, except the bit from the bleeding after he was dead.”

“Any signs of another person there?”

“Such as what? They’re pleasure boats. There could have been a hundred other people in it at one time or another. Even this last week!”

“I am aware of that, Tellman. Maybe one of them killed Winthrop.”

“Without leaving any blood, sir? The man’s head was cut off!”

“What about over the side?”

“What?”

“What if he leaned over the side?” Pitt asked, his voice rising as the picture became clear in his mind. “What if they were in the boat together and the murderer dropped something in the water, drawing Winthrop’s attention to it. Winthrop leaned over, the murderer hit him over the head, then struck his head off—into the water? The blood would all go over the side!”

“Possible,” Tellman said grudgingly, but there was a certain admiration in his voice, and a lift of excitement. “Could have been done like that!”

“Was the hair wet? Think, man! You saw it!” Pitt said eagerly.

“Difficult to tell, sir. Wasn’t much of it. Very thin, almost bald on top.”

“Yes. I know that. But what there was of it. The sides—the whiskers?”

“Yes—yes I think there were. But I’m not sure if there was water in the bottom of the boat—bilges …” He was reluctant yet to grasp the full implications, but he could not keep the urgency and the lift out of his voice.

“In a pleasure boat? Nonsense,” Pitt dismissed it.

“Then yes, sir, the whiskers were wet—I think.”

“Blood?”

“No—not a lot.” Tellman did not take his eyes from Pitt’s.

“Wouldn’t there have been a lot if the head had simply fallen where he was killed?” Pitt asked.

Still Tellman was cautious. “I don’t know, sir. It’s not something I ever experienced before. I would think so, yes. Unless one held the head up to kill him.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How would one hold the head up? He had hardly any habón top.”

Tellman breathed out, his eyes bright. He gave in at last.

“Then I expect you’re right. I daresay he was killed in the boat, leaning over the side, and his head fell in the water. We’ll never prove it.”

“Look at the boat carefully,” Pitt ordered, leaning back in his seat. “There may be a mark in the wood somewhere, a nick or a scratch. It must have been a very powerful blow, not easy to control. It would prove our theory.”

“Yes sir,” Tellman said steadily. “Anything else, sir?”

“Not unless you have something further to report.”

“No sir. What would you like after that, sir?”

“I’d like you to find that weapon, and continue to learn whatever you can about the man’s movements that night. Someone may have seen him.”

“Yes sir.” The old insolence returned as if he could not help it. The resentment was too deep. The truce was over. “And what about Mrs. Winthrop? Are you going to look into her a lot more? See if she had a lover? Or would that be too offensive to the family?”

“If I find out anything relevant, I’ll inform you,” Pitt said coolly. “Offensive or not. Now go and drag the Serpentine.”

“Yes sir.”

Pitt would rather have dragged the Serpentine than do the job he knew he should do next. He had been turning it over in his mind since leaving Portsmouth, debating whether it was really necessary or not. It might well prove useless in that it would turn up no new information, but that was not the only aspect to consider. There was the professional courtesy, and the fact that if he did not, the omission could prove expensive. Above all, he questioned himself, would Micah Drummond have gone; and he knew the answer without hesitation. He would have.

Accordingly, in the late morning Pitt found himself in the library of Lord Marlborough Winthrop’s house in Chelsea, not more than a stone’s throw from the Thames. It was a solid, gracious house, but lacking in any individuality of style, and the library where Pitt was waiting was unimaginative in its use of leather, gold tooling, rich mahogany, and heavy, pillared mantel shelf. After barely one glance around it he could have closed his eyes and described the rest of what he would see, and he was not mistaken.

Lord Winthrop himself, when he closed the door silently behind him and stood facing Pitt, was a man of indeterminate features, sandy hair and an expression which was lugubrious in the extreme, although whether that was his nature or the present circumstances it was not possible to say. Pitt felt in his mind it was the former. There seemed no softening in his face, no mellower lines around the eyes. He looked as if laughter did not come easily to him. He reminded Pitt queasily of the bloodless face in the morgue, the same features, the same mottled coloring. Of course today he was dressed entirely in black.

“Good morning, Mr….” He looked at Pitt, trying to gather some impression of him, to place his social status to know how to treazt him.

“Superintendent Pitt.” He still liked the sound of the title, and then felt self-conscious for having spoken it The man might prove to be pompous and superficial, but he had just lost a son in a fearful manner. His grief and his shock would be real. To judge him now would be a far greater offense than any he was likely to commit.

“Oh—yes,” Winthrop agreed as if memory were returning. In spite of being a big man and broad shouldered, he was not imposing. His size seemed more of an encumbrance to him than an asset. “Good of you to come.” But his voice suggested that it was merely Pitt’s duty, and his own thanks were a question of courtesy, no more. “Of course Lady Winthrop and I are most anxious to know what progress you have made in this terrible affair.” He looked at Pitt, waiting for him to reply.

Pitt swallowed the desire to explain that his errand was one of discovery. Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was he who was mistaken. Micah Drummond’s job had included a large element of diplomacy. It was something he would have to learn if he were to fill his shoes. Odd, but now that he was more senior, he was also less his own master. He was accountable in a way he had not been before.

“We have witnesses, sir,” he said aloud. “People who passed by the park at various times during the evening and certain parts of the night, and it would seem as if the crime must have been committed at about midnight—”

“You mean someone saw it?” Lord Winthrop was incredulous. “Good God, man! What is the world coming to when such an act can be perpetrated in a public place in London, and men see it and do nothing! What is happening to us?” His face was growing darker as the blood suffused his cheeks. “One expects barbarity in heathen countries, outposts of the Empire, but not here in the heart and soul of a civilized land!” There was both anger and fear in his voice. He stood in the middle of his familiar room with all its trappings of social and economic safety, a frightened man, confusion threatening him in spite of it all. “Brutal murders in Whitechapel eighteen months ago, and nobody even caught for it.” His voice was rising. “Scandal about the Royal Family, whispers everywhere, moral decay setting in, vulgarity in everything.” Self-control was fast escaping him. “Anarchists, Irishmen all over the place. The whole of society is on the brink of ruin.” He took a deep, shaky breath, then another. “I apologize, sir. I should not allow my personal feelings to be so—outspoken …”

“I am sure you are not alone in believing we live in most trying times, Lord Winthrop,” Pitt said tactfully. “But actually I did not mean that anyone saw a crime committed, only that there was no one on the Serpentine when a young couple passed at ten o’clock, that two men were seen walking in Rotten Row a little bit before midnight, and that at two in the morning there was a boat on the water, apparently drifting. Since Captain Winthrop died approximately between eleven and midnight, as an estimate, that would seem to suggest it was midnight.”

Lord Winthrop’s voice leveled with an effort. “Ah—yes, I see. Well, what does that prove? It hardly apprehends anyone!” His expression tightened as if he had smelled something distasteful. “Only too obviously there are gangs of murderous thieves at loose in the heart of London. What are you doing about it, I should like to know. I am not one to criticize the established authorities, but even the most lenient of us has to say that the police force has a great deal to do to justify itself.” He was standing in front of the mantel shelf, with a very traditional Chelsea vase on it, and behind his shoulder, on the wall, a painting of a calm, ordered landscape. “You have much to do to redeem your reputation, sir, after the Whitechapel affair,” he continued. “Jack the Ripper, indeed! What about madmen who would”—he swallowed—“decapitate a man for a few pounds?”

“It is not likely that he was robbed, sir,” Pitt interposed.

Lord Winthrop’s nostrils flared. “Not robbed? Rubbish, sir! Of course he was robbed! Why else would a gang of cutthroats set on a complete stranger who was merely taking an evening stroll in the park? My son was a man of excellent physique, Mr. Pitt, superb in sports, especially the noble arts of self-defense. ‘A healthy mind and a healthy body’ was his motto, and he was always as good as his word.”

Pitt was reminded suddenly of Eustace March, Emily’s uncle-in-law, insensitive, pompous, opinionated and insufferable—and in the end tragic. Had Oakley Winthrop been like that? If so, it was not surprising someone had murdered him.

“There must have been several of them, and well armed, to have overcome him,” Lord Winthrop continued, his voice rising as his anger mounted. “What are you doing to permit the situation to have reached this monstrous proportion, I should like to know.”

“As you say, sir.” Pitt kept a picture of Micah Drummond in his mind’s eye, the long, rather serious face with its aquiline nose and gray, innocent eyes. It was the only way he could control his temper. “Captain Winthrop was a fine man in the prime of life, in excellent health, and skilled in sport. He must have been attacked either by a greatly superior force, such as that of several people, possibly well armed, or else he was taken by surprise by someone he believed he had no cause to fear.”

Lord Winthrop stood motionless. “What are you implying?”

“That there appears to have been no struggle, sir,” Pitt explained, wishing he could move to ease the tension in himself, and yet the quiet room seemed to forbid anything but utter concentration on the tragedy in hand. “Captain Winthrop had no bruises upon his body or arms,” he continued. “No scratches or other marks, no contusions on his knuckles, nor were his clothes torn or scuffed. Had there been any struggle—”

“Yes, yes, yes! I am not a fool, man,” Lord Winthrop said impatiently. “I realize what you are saying.” He moved suddenly away from the mantel to stare out of the window onto the overgrown patch of dark laurels, his shoulders high, back rigid. “Betrayed—that is what it amounts to. Poor Oakley was betrayed.” He swung back again. “Well, Superintendent whatever-your-name-is, I expect you to find out who it was and see that he is brought to justice. I hope you understand me?”

Pitt bit back the response that rose to his lips.

“Yes, sir. Of course we will.”

Lord Winthrop was only partially mollified. “Betrayed. Good God!”

“Who was betrayed?” The door had opened without either of them noticing, and a slender woman with dark hair and large, heavy-lidded blue eyes stood just inside the room. Her manner was imperious and her face was full of passion, intelligence and anger. “Who was betrayed, Marlborough?”

Lord Winthrop turned to look at her, his face suddenly ironed of emotion.

“You do not need to concern yourself with it, my dear. It is better that you do not know the details. I shall tell you, naturally, when there is any news.”

“Nonsense!” She closed the door behind her. “If it has to do with Oakley, I have as much right to know as you.” She looked at Pitt for the first time. “And who are you, young man? Has someone sent you to apprise us of the situation?”

Pitt took a deep breath. “No, Lady Winthrop, I am in charge of the case and I came to assure you of every effort we can make, and to inform you of what little information we have already.”

“And is that indeed that my son was betrayed?” she asked. “Although if you have not caught the assassin, how can you possibly know that he was betrayed?”

“Evelyn, it would surely be much better …” Lord Winthrop began.

She ignored him completely. “How can you know anything of the sort?” she demanded of Pitt again, coming farther into the room and standing on the heavy ornate carpet. “If you are in charge of the case, why are you not out doing something? What are you doing here? We can tell you nothing.”

“There are several men out searching and asking questions, ma’am,” Pitt said patiently. “I came to inform you of our progress so far, and to see if you might be able to shed any light on certain aspects of the case—”

“Us? What on earth do you mean?” Her eyes were very large and deep set, a little too close together for true beauty. “Why do you say ‘betrayed’? If you are thinking of his wife, then that is total nonsense.” She gave a little shiver and her body moved, rustling the stiff silk of her gown. “She is devoted to him. The idea that she might have entertained notions about other men is quite absurd. I don’t know what sort of people you imagine we are.”

“He did not say—” Lord Winthrop began again.

“We are landed aristocracy,” she went on, ignoring him and staring at Pitt. “We are not involved in trade, nor do we marry foreigners. We are not greedy nor are we ambitious. We do not seek position, but we serve with honor and diligence when called upon. We know how to behave, Mr. Pitt. We know our duty, and have done it to the full.”

Pitt discarded most of the things he had been going to ask. They would either fail to understand him entirely or they would be insulted.

“I had no one in mind, ma’am,” he said as soothingly as he could. “It is simply that Captain Winthrop made no struggle at all, which strongly suggests that he did not expect any attack from whoever it was. He was taken completely by surprise, therefore I am inclined to believe it was someone he knew.”

“Are you!” There was challenge in her voice, in the stiff attitude of her body beneath its black silk.

“When a man is walking alone in the park after dark,” Pitt explained, “he is inclined to be wary of any stranger approaching, to remain facing him if he stops, don’t you think?”

“Me?” She was surprised. Then she considered it. “Yes, I suppose so.” She moved closer to the window and stared out at the light on the leaves. “Perhaps one of his neighbors has taken leave of his wits. Or do you imagine it is someone from the ship, someone racked with envy or some such thing? Perhaps Oakley beat him at some contest or other, or made a fool of him in some other way. Whoever it is, I expect you to find him and see to it that he is hanged.”

“Of course he will,” Lord Winthrop said at last. “I have already discussed the matter with Mr. Pitt. He is aware of my feelings on the subject.”

“He may not be aware that the Home Secretary is a relative of ours.” She turned and looked back at Pitt with sharp eyes. “As indeed are many other people of great influence. It is vulgar to be ostentatious about one’s family connections, nevertheless, I would have you keep in mind that we shall not rest until the matter is closed and justice is done for my poor son.” She raised her chin a little. “Now, we appreciate your coming to inform us of your intentions, but you had better not waste any more time standing here. Please accept our thanks and continue about your business.” She swiveled around to her husband, dismissing Pitt. “Marlborough, I have written to all the Walsingham side of the family. I think it would be better if you wrote to the Thurlows and the Sussex Mayburys.”

“They will all be perfectly aware of it, my dear,” he said irritably. “The newspapers are full of it! Goodness knows, every little clerk and washerwoman in London will be familiar with the details of it by now!”

“That is hardly the point,” she said. “It is our duty to inform the family properly. They will be insulted if we do not. They will wish to write to us to offer their condolences. And one keeps notices of deaths in the family. It is important.” She shook her head impatiently and the facets of her jet beads caught the light. “I have not written to the Gloucestershire Wardlaws yet, or to cousin Reginald. I shall have to order some more black-edged paper. One can hardly use ordinary deckle for such a purpose.”

“Did Captain Winthrop ever speak to you of a rivalry?” Pitt felt as if he were interrupting, their attention had so obviously gone from him.

“No.” Lady Winthrop turned back with some surprise. “Never, that I can recall. He wrote to us regularly, of course, and came here each time he was ashore, for dinner at least once. But I do not recall his ever having mentioned any enmity with anyone at all. He was remarkably well liked.” A frown creased her forehead. “I thought I had already told you so.”

“People who are popular and successful can attract the envy of those who are less so,” Pitt pointed out.

“Yes, of course. I am aware of that,” she retorted. “I have no idea. Surely that is your job to find out. Is it not what you are employed for?”

“Oakley never mentioned anyone,” Lord Winthrop answered, putting his hand out tentatively towards his wife, then thinking better of it.

“But then he was not given to speaking ill of others. I daresay he was not even aware of it.”

“Of course he wasn’t aware of it,” she said brusquely, her brows drawn together. “The superintendent said he was taken by surprise. If it had been a man who hated him, he would have been on his guard. He was not a fool, Marlborough!”

“Dammit, he trusted someone he should not have!” he said with a sudden burst of anger.

She ignored him and looked at Pitt.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt I assume you will keep us informed. Good day to you.”

“Good day, ma’am,” Pitt answered obediently, and walked past her to open the door and let himself out.

Pitt had not mentioned to Lord and Lady Winthrop that it seemed the crime had actually been committed in the pleasure boat on the Serpentine, but the fact was confirmed to him the following day when Sergeant le Grange came to his office. He was a smallish, solid man with dark auburn hair and a good-looking face.

“Looks as if Mr. Tellman was right, sir,” he said with satisfaction, standing in front of Pitt’s desk with a smile. “Crime was done right there in the boat, over the side. Very neat. All the blood gone into the water. Nothing to show.”

Pitt gritted his teeth. It had not been Tellman’s idea and yet it would be ridiculously childish to point that out to le Grange, even if le Grange were to believe him. And if he did not, it would make Pitt look absurd.

“You found a fresh nick in the wood,” he said very levelly.

Le Grange’s brown eyes opened wide.

“Yes sir! Did Mr. Tellman say so to you? He told me as he wouldn’t have time to come up and see you, as he had to go and talk with someone in Battersea.”

“No, he did not tell me,” Pitt replied. “It is what I should have looked for in the circumstances. I assumed you did the same.”

“Oh, not me, sir, except because Mr. Tellman told me to,” le Grange said modestly.

“What did he go to Battersea for?”

Le Grange stared straight ahead of him.

“Oh, you’d better ask him that, sir.”

“Are you still looking for the weapon?” Pitt asked.

“Yes sir.” Le Grange pulled a face. “Not found anything at all so far. Don’t know where else to look. I think as he probably took it away with him. Ah well, he must have brought it. I suppose he would take it back the same way.”

“You’ve dragged the Serpentine?” Pitt did not argue. It was unpleasantly likely the murderer still had the weapon, or had dropped it in any of a hundred other possible places. They could hardly drag the Thames for it. It would have sunk deep into the river mud ages ago.

“Ah yes sir. Mr. Tellman is very thorough, sir. He made sure we did that, and did it properly. There is nothing in there now, sir, not a thing. You’d never credit the stuff we found!” His eyes opened a little wider. “Two perfectly good boots, both for the left foot. Shame about them. Don’t know how someone could lose them. Three different fishing poles. I suppose that’s easy enough to understand. All kinds o’ boxes and bags, and a hat that looked nearly new. You wouldn’t believe it! No money, o’ course.”

“I will believe anything you tell me, Sergeant,” Pitt said without a flicker, and watched le Grange’s surprise with satisfaction. “Now what has Mr. Tellman told you to do next?”

“He said as I should come up to you, Mr. Pitt, and see what you said we should do, you being in charge, like.” The expression in his face had altered somewhat since he came in, but it was still cautious, that of a man whose old prejudices die hard.

With an effort Pitt ignored it. “Have you spoken to all the neighbors yet?”

“Yes sir. No one said anything helpful. One elderly lady did see ’im start ’is walk in the evening, but since we already know from Mrs. Winthrop what time it was, it ’ardly adds to anything.”

“Yes it does,” Pitt contradicted. “It confirms that she is telling the truth.”

“You didn’t suspect ’er, did you, sir?” le Grange said with disbelief and a touch of sarcasm, all under the veneer of respect. “She’s really quite a small woman, sir. Tall, an’ all that, but must weigh like a feather. No flesh to her at all.”

“Not of doing it herself, Sergeant, but it is not impossible she was involved. A great many crimes of violence are domestic in origin.”

“Oh. Yes, well I suppose you’re right about that,” le Grange conceded graciously. “But I wouldn’t have thought a lady like that … well—I suppose you know the gentry, sir.”

“It is a possibility, le Grange, that’s all. I assume nobody saw him approached by anyone else?”

“No sir.”

“And all these neighbors and acquaintances, were they all at home themselves?”

“Sir?”

“Can they account for where they were all night until about three in the morning, Sergeant?”

“I dunno, sir.”

“Then that’s what you do next. Find out!”

“Yes sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Until you can answer that, yes!”

“Sir!” And le Grange turned on his heel smartly and went out, leaving Pitt irritated and knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

There were other cases which required at least some of his attention, a major robbery, a fire which seemed like arson, an embezzlement from a company of stockbrokers. It was the afternoon of the next day when Pitt was told by a pale-faced and breathless sergeant that there was a gentleman from the Home Office to see him, and the moment after he stood back, with an anguished glance of apology, a tall, very distinguished man came into the room. The sergeant beat a hasty retreat.

“Landon Hurlwood,” the man announced as Pitt rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, Superintendent. Forgive my calling upon you unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent, and I had a few moments I could spare.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hurlwood,” Pitt replied levelly. “Please make yourself comfortable.” He indicated the chair he had so often sat in himself when Micah Drummond had occupied this office. As Hurlwood accepted, Pitt sat in the easy chair and looked across at his visitor expectantly.

Hurlwood was tall, almost as tall as Pitt, of slender build and still trim, although Pitt would have judged him to be in his late fifties. His hair was unblemished pewter gray, thick, and curled up over his ears. He had excellent, very dark eyes, and patrician features. He sat back and crossed his legs, totally at ease.

“This appalling murder of poor Captain Winthrop, Superintendent,” he began, regarding Pitt with a slight smile. “What do we know so far?”

Pitt outlined the facts, keeping all speculation and deduction to himself.

Hurlwood listened intently. “I see,” he said at last. “I confess, this is worse than I had thought. One discounts a great deal that the newspapers have to say. I fear they are more interested in sensation than truth, and cater to the lowest of minds. But in this instance it seems they are not inaccurate, even if their choice of language is a trifle hysterical. Tell me frankly, Superintendent, what are your prospects of finding the lunatic who did this?”

“If it is some chance madman, probably very little,” Pitt replied. “Unless he kills again and leaves more evidence next time.”

“Good God! What a fearful thought! I assume that you do not think it was a band of robbers? No, I must say it seems unlikely. They would not have left anything on him, and you say there were coins in his waistcoat pocket, and a gold watch and the chain commonly known as an albert.” He moved his elegant head in a motion of denial. “And anyway, why on earth would thieves take off the poor man’s head? Thieves come armed with knives or cudgels, or even a garrote, but not an actual cutlass. So in your opinion it resolves to either a madman or someone he knew?” His lips tightened. “How very unpleasant.”

“Less frightening to the public than a gang of thieves who behead their victims,” Pitt observed.

“Oh true, quite true.” Huriwood gave a ghost of a smile. “Nevertheless we must clear it up as soon as possible. What I would like to know, if you can tell me, is if it has anything to do with the navy, in your opinion. It is not unnatural that the Admiralty should wish to know.”

Pitt caught a whiff of fear, and could imagine the preparation for denial, and thence, the disclamation.

“There is no evidence to suggest it yet,” he replied carefully. “I have been to Portsmouth and spoken to his lieutenant, who says that he had no quarrel there, and he was not killed until eight days after he came up to London.”

“Indicative.” Hurlwood nodded his head, relaxing a fraction. “A long time to wait if one has a murderous quarrel. Hardly the heat of the moment. Still, not enough to rule it out.” He was easier; his long, elegant hands were no longer clenched, but he was not naive enough to accept escape so swiftly.

“I also checked as many as possible of his colleagues and friends to see if they were in Portsmouth on the night of his death,” Pitt added. “So far they were all in Portsmouth at times close enough to midnight of that night that they could not have been in London, even on the fastest of trains.”

“I see. Yes, that would be conclusive.” Hurlwood rose to his feet in a single, graceful motion. His clothes were beautiful. He made Pitt feel shabby. Micah Drummond would not have felt so far short in the comparison. He was not a dandy, but he had the elegance that comes without effort to the true gentleman.

Pitt stood up also, his jacket bulging where his pockets were stuffed with notes the desk sergeant had given him and a ball of string from which he had recently tied up a parcel.

“So you are left with a personal motive,” Hurlwood continued. “All the same, I imagine you will give it your fullest attention, Superintendent, in view of the nature of the crime and the distinguished family of the victim.” It was not a question but an assumption.

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed. “But it is not a matter in which haste will be appropriate.”

Hurlwood flashed him a broad smile. His teeth were excellent, and no doubt he was aware of it, but there was genuine humor in him, an appreciation of all that Pitt had not said.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I do not envy you, Superintendent. Very courteous of you to spare me your time. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Mr. Hurlwood,” Pitt replied, smiling himself at the euphemism. The day could hardly be good for any of them.

* * *

Hurlwood had been gone only half an hour when the sergeant returned, eyes wide again, breath catching in his throat. This time it was Giles Farnsworth, the assistant commissioner, who was a step behind him. He was smooth-faced, cleanshaven and perhaps ten years younger than Hurlwood. Today he looked angry and harassed. His white shirt was immaculate, his winged collar high and a trifle tight, his fair brown hair was thick and brushed back off his broad brow, but there was anxiety in his expression and the beginnings of a ragged temper.

“Good afternoon, Pitt.” He closed the door behind him and remained standing.

Pitt came around the desk. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“This damned Winthrop business,” Farnsworth said, his mouth pulled tight with distaste. “What have you done so far? We can’t let this one stand around. Police reputation is bad enough. We’ve never recovered from the Ripper and all the harm that did us. We can’t afford another episode like that!”

“No reason to suppose we will have one again—” Pitt began.

Farnsworth’s temper was intent and savage. “Good God, man! Of course it will happen again if we’ve got a criminal lunatic loose in Hyde Park. Why on earth would he be satisfied with one dead body?” He jerked his head angrily. “And if it’s a gang of robbers come from God knows where, they’d do it as long as they can get away with it! We’ll have panic in the streets again, people terrified to go out of their own doors, half the city paralyzed …”

“Captain Winthrop was not robbed.”

“Then it’s a madman!”

“Neither did he put up any struggle.” Pitt kept his tone calm with an effort. He understood why Farnsworth was afraid. The political situation was tense. The Whitechapel affair had shown ugly manifestations of anarchy, a violence simmering frighteningly close to the surface. There was unrest in many of the major cities, the old sore of the Irish question was as painful as ever. The popularity of the monarchy was at its lowest ebb. It would not take much to spark the underlying fear into a blaze of destruction which would carry many of them away with it. “He was killed in the pleasure boat while leaning over the side, and with one clean stroke,” Pitt said aloud.

Farnsworth stood still, his face tight and bleak.

“What are you saying, Pitt? That it was someone he knew? He must have known him well. Why on earth does a naval captain get into a pleasure boat on the Serpentine, at midnight, with another man carrying an ax? It’s absurd. It’s very, very ugly, Pitt.”

“I know that, sir.”

“Who is it? What was the man’s private life? What about the wife? If it’s scandalous, you are going to have to cover this up, if you can. I trust you know that?” He fixed Pitt with a sharp stare.

“I never expose people’s private griefs and sins voluntarily,” Pitt replied, but it was an equivocation, and Farnsworth knew it.

“Winthrops are an important family, connections all over the place,” Farnsworth went on, moving his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. “For Heaven’s sake be discreet. And don’t pull faces, man! I know you’ve got to solve the case!” He bit his lip, looking at Pitt hard and obviously turning over something in his mind.

Pitt waited.

“It’s going to be difficult,” Farnsworth said again.

The remark was so obvious Pitt did not reply.

Farnsworth looked Pitt up and down closely, still cogitating. “You’ll need connections yourself,” he said slowly. “Not impossible. Self-made man, but that doesn’t rule out influence, you know.”

Pitt felt a sudden stab of fear, but still he said nothing.

“Just a few friends can make the world of difference,” Farnsworth went on. “If they are the right ones.”

The fear subsided. It was not what Pitt had dreaded. He found himself smiling.

Farnsworth smiled as well.

“Good man,” he said with a nod. “Opens a lot of doors for you, furthers your career. Drummond was, you know?”

Pitt went cold. It was the Inner Circle he was referring to after all, that secret society, outwardly benevolent, inwardly malign, which Drummond had joined in his innocence and regretted so bitterly afterwards. The price of brotherhood was the surrender of loyalties, the forfeit of conscience so that an unknown army helped you, and could call on your help, at whatever cost, whenever it chose. The price of betrayal was ruin, sometimes even death. One knew only a half dozen or so other members, as the need arose. There was no way to tell to whom your loyalty might be pledged, or in what cause.

“No.” Pitt blurted out the word before realizing how foolish it would be, but he felt cornered, as if a darkness were trapping him and closing tight around him. “I …” He drew in his breath and let it out slowly.

Farnsworth’s face was flushed with annoyance and there was a bright glitter in his eyes.

“You are making a mistake, Pitt,” he said between his teeth.

“I don’t belong.” Pitt kept his voice as calm as he could.

“If you want to succeed, you had better make yourself belong.” Farnsworth looked at him unsmilingly. “Otherwise the doors will be closed. And I know what I am talking about. You need to clear up this case quickly.” He gestured towards the window and the street below. “Have you seen the newspapers? The public are beginning to panic already. You have no time to dither.” He walked to the door. “I’ll give you three days, Pitt, then you had better have something very decisive. And I expect you to reconsider that other matter. You need friends, believe me. You need them very much.” And with that he went out, leaving the door open behind him, and Pitt heard his footsteps down the stairs.