by Anne Perry
Charlotte followed Bart into the withdrawing room and sat down where he indicated. Apparently Gwynneth had already gathered that she was supposed to bring tea, or else possibly she always did so at that time of day, but it was only a few moments before she appeared again, very carefully balancing a tray in front of her, and put it down on the table, bobbed a curtsy and withdrew with more haste than grace.
When the formalities of pouring and passing had been completed, Bart leaned back and regarded Charlotte with careful, intelligent eyes.
“It is an unusual kindness to call upon someone who is in mourning, Mrs. Pitt,” he remarked.
She had been waiting for him to say something of the sort.
“I have been in mourning myself, Mr. Mitchell,” she replied quite lightly. “And found it very hard to bear, even though I had my mother and my sister in the house at the time. I wished profoundly to have a little conversation that was not in hushed tones and had nothing whatever to do with the dead.” She sipped her tea. “Of course I could not know if Mrs. Winthrop would feel the same, but it seemed very natural to give her the opportunity, should she wish to take it”
“You surprise me,” he said candidly. His expression was casual and charming, but his eyes did not leave her face. “Mina was devoted to Oakley. I think some people do not realize quite what courage it requires to maintain such a calm exterior to the world.”
How much was he lying? She had no doubt now that he had seen at least some of those bruises. How many more were there? Did he guess, or know?
“We each of us have our own way of dealing with grief.” She smiled back at him, her easy words belying the tension she felt. “For some of us, to resume normality is helpful. Mrs. Winthrop showed me the beautiful breakfast room, which I found quite delightful. I think it is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.”
His face tightened.
“Oh yes. Mina has a considerable gift with color and grace.” He was watching her very closely, weighing her reaction, judging why she had raised the subject in the first place.
“I am sure Captain Winthrop would have seen how charming it was once he had become accustomed to it,” she continued, watching him as frankly. Between them, unspoken but now almost palpable, lay the awful bruises, and Mina’s humiliation and embarrassment. What had she told him? And immeasurably more important, when? Before Winthrop’s death—or after?
He started to speak, and then changed his mind.
“I am in the process of moving house myself,” Charlotte said to fill the silence. “It is one of the most exhausting things I have ever done. The detail that requires to be attended to seems never ending.”
“Surely your builder is of assistance?” he asked, still watching her. The conversation was meaningless and they both knew it, but they had to speak of something. What thoughts were racing through his head?
She smiled. “Of course. But he leaves the matters of domestic decoration to me. Just at the moment I am torn between choosing one color because I think I care for it, and another because it may prove more practical.”
“A dilemma,” he agreed. “What is your decision?”
There was another silence between them. Ridiculous as it was, it seemed as if his question meant more than a trivial matter of color, as if he were also asking what she intended to do about the bruises—to carry the tale back, or to dismiss it.
She thought for several moments before replying. Then she met his remarkable eyes with total candor.
“I expect I shall consult my husband,” she answered at length.
His face was bare of all expression.
“I suppose I should have expected that,” he said levelly.
She was caught in a confusion of emotions, anger against Oakley Winthrop because it seemed he had been a bully, and if Gracie were correct, even a sadist; pity for Mina because she had first endured it, and now must walk in terror in case Bart had killed him, and were discovered; a fear both for Bart, and as he sat opposite her, even a twinge of fear for herself.
The silence was becoming oppressive.
“Since it is his home also, it would be only civil,” she said hollowly.
A very slight amusement touched his lips.
“Do I gather from your choice of words that you will not necessarily abide by his decision, Mrs. Pitt?”
“Yes—I think that is so.”
“You are a woman of remarkable self-will—and perhaps of courage.”
She rose to her feet, forming a smile.
“Qualities of very dubious attraction,” she said lightly. “But you have been most charming, Mr. Mitchell, and generous with your hospitality, especially in such trying circumstances. Thank you.”
He stood up in a single movement and bowed very slightly.
“Thank you for your friendship to my sister—as thoughtful and considerate as it is at this particular time.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied noncommittedly, and inclined her head in acknowledgment. He saw her to the door, which the maid opened, handing her her cape, and she walked swiftly along Curzon Street towards the omnibus stop, her mind teeming with questions.
Pitt was late home, and Charlotte found it difficult waiting for him. Gracie had gone to bed and Daniel and Jemima were long asleep. Impatience consumed her so she could not sit down and do anything useful. There was mending waiting her attention, and it lay in her sewing box untouched. There were certainly letters to write.
Instead she pottered around the kitchen, picking up this, and poking at that, half cleaning the stove, emptying things from one jar into another, dropping the tea caddy and spilling its contents all over the floor. No one was there to see her sweep it up hastily and replace it all. The floor was perfectly clean, and it would be scalded with water anyway.
When at last she did hear his key in the door she straightened her skirts for the tenth time, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ran down the hall to meet him.
His first reaction was alarm, in case there were something wrong, then when he saw her face he was delighted and held her tightly until after a few moments she pushed him away.
“Thomas, I have discovered something really important today.”
“About the house?” He tried to sound interested, but she heard the weariness in his voice.
“No—that is not the same sort of important,” she dismissed it totally. “I went to see Mina Winthrop—actually about papering the dining room.”
“What?” He was incredulous. “What on earth do you mean? That’s nonsense!”
“About what color to choose,” she said impatiently, leading him back to the kitchen. “Not about doing it.”
He was totally confused. “How would she know what color you should use?”
“She is very gifted at that sort of thing.”
“How do you know?” He sat down at the kitchen table. “There are tea leaves on the floor here.”
“I must have spilled a little,” she said airily. “I discussed it with her at the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. I went to see her today—Will you please listen, Thomas. This is important.”
“I am listening. Can you put the kettle on at the same time? It’s hours since I had a cup of tea.”
“It is on. I’m about to make tea. Are you hungry too?”
“No, I think I’m too tired to eat.”
She ran a bowl of water, putting something into it he did not see, and put it down on the floor in front of him. “Feet,” she said absently.
“I’m not walking a beat,” he answered with a smile. “Have you forgotten, I’m a superintendent now?” He bent forward and unlaced his boots, slipping his feet out with intense pleasure.
“Don’t superintendents’ feet get hot in boots?”
He smiled and put his feet gingerly into the cold water. “What’s in it?”
“Epsom salts, same as always. Mrs. Winthrop has been beaten. And Oakley Winthrop may have been a sadist who liked to beat women anyway. I mean prostitutes—that so
rt of thing.”
“What?” He looked up at her sharply. “How do you know? Did she tell you that?”
“No, of course not. She spilled hot water on her wrist, and I undid her cuffs to see it. She is purple and green with bruises.”
“An accident …”
“No it wasn’t. There were finger marks. And I’m almost sure her neck was bruised as well, and who knows what else on the rest of her body. That’s why she wears long cuffs and high necks: to hide the bruises.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do! And what is more, I am almost sure Bart Mitchell knows it too.”
“How?”
“Because I spoke to her, and I watched her. She was bitterly ashamed, and embarrassed, and she didn’t tell me how it happened. She would have, if it had been all right. Her husband did it, Thomas. The good Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop beat his wife.”
“What makes you so sure Mitchell knows about it?”
“Because he saw the bruises as well, and said nothing, of course. If he’d not known he’d have been horrified and asked her what had happened!”
“Maybe he beat her?”
“Why would he? And anyway, she’s afraid for him, Thomas, I’m sure of that. She is terrified he was the one who killed Winthrop.”
“You mean you are not sure of it,” he corrected. “People always say they are sure when what they mean is they think so, but they are not sure. Your kettle is boiling.”
“It won’t come to any harm.” She waved a hand at it. “Thomas, Mina is afraid Bart killed Oakley Winthrop because of the way he treated her.”
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And how did you come upon the information about the man who beats prostitutes in the park? Mina Winthrop didn’t tell you that, did she?”
“No of course not.”
“I am waiting.”
She took a deep breath. “Thomas, please don’t be angry—she did it because she is afraid for you. If you don’t forgive her, and say nothing whatever, I shall not forgive you.”
“Forgive me for what?” His eyebrows rose.
“For not forgiving her, of course!”
“Who? Is it Emily?”
“Perhaps I had better not say.” She had not even thought of blaming Emily, but it was an excellent idea. Emily was not Thomas’s responsibility.
“However, she knew about it?” he said very carefully. “At least give me the truth of that.”
“She went into the park at night, and one of the prostitutes told her. I mean, she got into a conversation—naturally …”
“Naturally,” he agreed dryly. “Does Jack know about this? I doubt it will improve his parliamentary chances.”
“Oh no. And you mustn’t tell him!”
“I would not think of it.”
“You promise?”
“I do.” He smiled, although the amusement was very double edged.
“Thank you.” She turned around and made the tea, giving it a moment to brew, then poured him a steaming mugful and brought it back to him. She watched him carefully as he took his feet out of the water and she gave him the warm towel.
“Thank you,” he said after several moments.
“For the tea,” she said gravely, “or the towel?”
“For the information. Poor Mina.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have my tea and go to bed. I can’t think any more tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I should have waited.”
He reached up and kissed her, and for some time Mina Winthrop and her troubles were forgotten.
At dawn the following morning, Billy Sowerbutts was driving his cart slowly along Knightsbridge towards Hyde Park Corner when he was forced to come to a stop because the traffic ahead of him was packed solid. He was put out; in fact come to think of it, he was definitely angry. What was the point in getting up early, when you ached to stay in bed and sink back into sleep, if you were going to spend half the bleeding morning sitting as still as Nelson’s monument because some idiot ahead has stopped and is holding everything up?
For a hundred yards people were beginning to shout and curse. Someone’s horse shied and backed, and two carts collided, locking wheels.
That was really the last straw. Billy Sowerbutts tied the reins of his animal to the rail and jumped down. He strode past everyone else right up to the offending vehicle, a gig, which extraordinarily had no animal between the shafts, as if someone had pushed it there by hand and then abandoned it, leaving it lying askew, its rear end sufficiently far into the line of traffic to have blocked the way.
“Idjut!” he said harshly. “What kind of a fool leaves a gig in a place like this. ’ere! What the ’ell’s the matter wif yer? This in’t no place ter take a kip!” He strode around to the recumbent figure lolling in the back amid piles of old clothes. “Wake up, yer bleedin’ idjut! Get out of ’ere! Yer ’oldin up the ’ole street!” He leaned forward and shook the man’s shoulder, and felt his hand wet. He pulled it back, and in the broadening light saw his fingers dark with something. Then he leaned forward again and peered more closely at the man. He had no head.
“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” he said, and fell over the shaft.
6
PITT SAT at his desk staring at Tellman. He felt numb, as if he had been struck a physical blow and the flesh were still too newly bruised to hurt.
“Knightsbridge, just outside the park,” Tellman repeated. “Headless, of course.” His long face showed no inner triumph or superiority this morning. “He’s still out there, Mr. Pitt; and we aren’t any closer to the swine than we were in the beginning.”
“Who was he?” Pitt asked slowly. “Anything else we know?”
“That’s just it.” Tellman screwed up his face. “He was a bus conductor.”
Pitt was startled. “A bus conductor! Not a gentleman?”
“Definitely not. Just a very ordinary, very respectable little bus conductor,” Tellman repeated. “On his way home from his last run—at least, not on his way home: that’s the odd thing.” He stared at Pitt. “He lives near the end of the line, which is out Shepherd’s Bush way. That’s what the omnibus company said.”
“So what was he doing in Knightsbridge near the park?” Pitt asked the obvious question. “Is that where he was killed?”
Memory of past conversations flashed across Tellman’s face, of Pitt’s insistence, and then his own failure to find where Arledge had been killed.
“No—at least it doesn’t look like it,” he replied. “There’s no way you can chop a man’s head off without leaving rivers of blood around, and there’s very little in the gig he was in.”
“Gig? What gig?” Pitt demanded.
“Ordinary sort of gig, except no horse,” Tellman replied.
“What do you mean a gig with no horse?” Pitt’s voice was rising in spite of himself. “Either it’s a vehicle to ride in or it’s a cart to push!”
“I mean the horse wasn’t there,” Tellman said irritably. “Nobody’s found it yet.”
“The Headsman let it loose?”
“Apparently.”
“What else?” Pitt leaned back, although no position was going to be comfortable today. “You have the head, I presume, since you know who he was and where he lived. Was he struck first? I don’t suppose he had anything worth robbing him of?”
“Yes, he was hit first, pretty hard, then his head taken off cleanly. Much better job than Arledge, poor devil. He was coming home from work, still had his uniform on, and he had three and sixpence in his pockets, which was about right, and a watch worth about five pounds. But why would anyone pick a bus conductor to rob?”
“Nobody would,” Pitt agreed unhappily. “Have you been to the family yet?”
Tellman’s narrow mouth tightened. “It’s still only half past eight.” He omitted the “Sir.” “Le Grange is on his way, just to inform her, like. Can’t see as she’ll be any help.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood in f
ront of the desk, staring down at Pitt. “We’ve got another lunatic. Seems he attacks anyone, as the fit takes him. No sense to it at all. I’m going to try Bedlam again. Maybe they refused someone, or let a maniac go a while back …” But his dark flat eyes registered no hope that it would produce anything. Then suddenly the emotion was there, raw and violent. “Someone’s got to know him!” he said passionately. “All London’s snapping at itself with suspicion, people are jumping at shadows, no one trusts anybody anymore—but someone knows him. Someone’s seen his face afterwards, and known he wasn’t right. Someone’s seen a weapon, or knows about it—they’ve got to!”
Pitt frowned, ignoring the outburst. He knew it was true, he’d seen the fear in the eyes, heard the sharp edge to voices, the distrust, the defensiveness and the blame. “This gig, where did it come from? Whose is it?” He sat down.
Tellman looked slightly taken aback, but he hid it immediately.
“Don’t know yet, sir. Not much in it, no easily identifiable marks.”
“Well you’ll know soon enough if it was his, although I can’t see a bus conductor going home in a gig,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Which raises the question as to why he was in it at all.”
“But it would be too much to hope it belonged to our lunatic.” Tellman curled his lip. “He’s far too fly for that!”
Pitt leaned farther back in his chair. Without thinking, he asked Tellman to sit down. “It raises the question of why use a gig at all,” he went on. “Let us assume it was stolen, if it did not belong to either of them. What did he want a vehicle for?”
“To move the body,” Tellman answered. “Which means he could have killed him anywhere—like Arledge.”
“Yes, but more probably either somewhere which would in some fashion betray him or—or somewhere which would be inconvenient to leave him,” Pitt said, thinking aloud.
“You mean where he would be found too soon, maybe?”
“Possibly. Where would this bus conductor have left the last bus?”
“Shepherd’s Bush station, Silgate Lane.”
“Long way from Hyde Park,” Pitt observed. “Is that where he lived?”