by Anne Perry
“Of course not, Bart,” Mina said carefully and with apology in her voice. “I don’t imagine that was what the superintendent was thinking. There would be no cause for such an idea.” She turned back to Pitt. “A few pleasant words, that is all, I assure you. Had I been aware of anything at all which could help you, do you not think I would have sent word to you immediately? After all, he was killed by the same man who murdered my husband!”
“Mina!” Bart said quickly. “Of course there was nothing improper in it. That is not the superintendent’s train of thought. He is supposing that, for that very reason, you may have known more than you are willing to tell.”
“No it is not, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt said sharply, but not entirely truthfully. “There may be a connection Mrs. Winthrop is unaware of. As you have pointed out, there must be a connection of some sort.”
Bart looked at him with his remarkable eyes hostile and guarded.
“Mrs. Winthrop?” Pitt pursued.
She looked at him with wide innocence and said nothing.
He was obliged to be specific. “You were observed to be in a state of distress at a reception after a concert, and Mr. Arledge spent some time comforting you. You appeared to confide in him.”
“Oh.” She drew in her breath in a gasp, then looked at Bart, her eyes full of fear and shame.
He came forward to stand beside her.
“Whoever reported that to you, Superintendent, did so in very poor taste,” he said stiffly. “It was a small domestic matter, such as happens to all of us from time to time, and can have had nothing to do with why Mr. Arledge was killed. For Heaven’s sake, man, how can”—he hesitated, only a second—“the death of a household pet be connected with a lunatic from God knows where who cuts people’s heads off in Hyde Park? That is absurd. If you have no better clues to chase than that, no wonder the wretch is still at large!”
Mina gulped. “You are being unfair, Bart. The superintendent could not have known that it was … as—as you said. All he knew was that I was distressed and Mr. Arledge comforted me. It could have been of importance.” She smiled at Pitt with embarrassment. “I’m sorry it is so totally useless to you. I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere. Mr. Arledge was merely being kind to me because the music had touched my emotions. He would no doubt have done the same for anyone. That is the depth of our acquaintance, I’m afraid. He said nothing to me that would throw any light on his death. In fact I cannot even remember what he did say. It was all rather general.”
She hesitated as if about to add something, then looked nervously at her brother.
“Did you know Mr. Arledge, sir?” Pitt asked suddenly.
“No!” Mina said instantly, then blushed at her forwardness. “Oh! I am sorry, that was most rude of me. I simply meant that—that—Bart has only recently returned from abroad.”
“When was this incident, ma’am, exactly?”
She paled. “I—I don’t recall … exactly. Some time ago.”
“Before the injury to your wrist?” he asked.
There was a moment’s total silence. The clock on the table by the window sounded like twigs breaking it was so loud.
“That was only the other day,” Bart said icily. “An accident with a pot of tea. A clumsy maid who did not look where she was going.” His blue eyes bored into Pitt’s with anger and challenge. “Surely you know that, Superintendent?”
“I was referring to the bruises, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt replied without flinching.
“That was my own fault too!” Mina said quickly. “Really it was. I—I …” She turned to face Pitt, away from her brother. All the confidence had drained away from her. She looked frightened and guilty. “I was being foolish, Superintendent, and my husband caught hold of me to … to prevent me from falling. I had already lost my footing and—and so …”
Bart was seething with some emotion he could barely suppress, and yet dared not reveal. He seemed on the verge of exploding into speech, and his face was dark with fury.
“And so his strength—my weight…” Mina stammered. “It was all very silly—and entirely of my own causing.”
“It was not your fault!” Bart lost control at last; his voice was quivering and very low. “You must stop blaming yourself for—” He stopped, turning to glare at Pitt, both his hands around Mina, holding her as if she might fall if he let her go. “Superintendent, all this has really nothing whatever to do with your inquiry. It happened long before Mr. Arledge’s death, and had no relevance to it whatever. I am afraid we neither of us had any personal acquaintance with him, and much as we would like to, we cannot help you. Good day, sir.”
“I see.” Pitt did not believe him, still less did he believe Mina, but there was nothing he could do to prove it. He was convinced Oakley Winthrop had beaten Mina, frequently and severely, and she was terrified that when Bart had seen it he had killed Winthrop, or that Pitt would think so. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said politely. “Mr. Mitchell.” And with a bow, but no pretense of accepting their words as truth, he excused himself and took his leave.
10
THE DAY FINALLY came for moving house. Since the Headsman was still at large and the mystery as deep as ever, Pitt was unable to offer more than an hour or two’s help. Of course he had employed men to pack and move the furniture, and Charlotte had spent all the previous day rolling glasses and cups and plates in old newspaper and wedging them carefully in boxes. All clothes were packed up, and linen; carpets had been taken up in the morning, and now everything was on its way from the old Bloomsbury house to the new house, which was finally decorated. The tiles around the fires had been replaced, all the gas brackets mended and in working order, shades were whole, every tiny piece of coving and dado rail mended or replaced, and the wallpaper and paint were immaculate.
Now that the reality was here, the children had realized exactly what moving meant. A whole new world beckoned full of excitement, experience, possibly adventure. When he had first got up Daniel had jiggled up and down with exuberance without really knowing why, and his questions had been endless. It had not noticeably dampened his spirits that no one had answered most of them.
Jemima had been quieter. Being two years older, it had taken her less time to realize that accepting the new inevitably means relinquishing the old, and the pain and uncertainty that brought with it. She had bursts of enthusiasm and curiosity, then long silences when she gazed around the familiar places, saddened that they now looked bare and already abandoned without curtains, pictures or the family furniture. When the carpets were rolled up it was as if the floor itself had been removed, and she spent several minutes rather tearfully with Gracie chiding her and hugging her, and giving her a string of instructions how to be useful, none of which she was able to follow.
However, by half past ten, Gracie and both children had gone with Pitt in the hansom, squashed rather uncomfortably close together in its narrow confines. There was no way in which Charlotte could also have ridden, quite apart from the fact that they had gone first in order to open the house and be ready to receive the goods when they arrived. Charlotte, on the other hand, was waiting till every last thing was packed and she had made triply sure that nothing whatsoever was left behind, forgotten, or mislaid, and the door was latched for the last time.
When all was accomplished and she had given the removal men the new address yet again, she picked up her two very best cushions, hand embroidered in silks, which were far too good to entrust to the men and too big to put in the boxes. She wrapped them in an old sheet, closed the front door once more, and hesitated on the step, looking around.
Then she pulled herself together and walked down the path to the gate. There was no time to think of all the happiness she had had here, or of regrets. Memories could not be left behind. They were part of one, carried in the heart.
She went through the gate, closed it, and set out along the pavement towards the omnibus stop, carrying the sheet with its two cushions. They did l
ook a trifle like laundry and she was glad not to pass anyone she knew.
The omnibus came within five minutes and gratefully she stepped up, lugging the cushions behind her.
“I’m sorry miss, yer can’t bring ’em in ’ere,” the conductor said sharply, his round face full of contempt. He stood squarely in front of her, chin jutting out, brass buttons gleaming, expression bright with authority.
Charlotte stared at him, taken completely by surprise.
“You’ll ’ave to get orf!” he ordered. “There’d be no room for fare-payin’ passengers if I let every washerwoman in Bloomsbury get on ’ere with—”
“It’s not laundry,” Charlotte said indignantly. “It’s cushions.”
“I don’t care what it is,” the conductor replied with a laugh. “It could be the Queen’s nightshirt for all I care. Yer can’t bring it in ’ere. There ain’t no room for it. Now be a good girl and get orf, so the rest of us can be on our way.”
“I’m moving house!” Charlotte said desperately. “My husband and children have gone on ahead. I’ve got to catch up with them.”
“That’s as may be, but you ain’t doing it on my bus—not with that bag full o’ laundry! What d’yer think this is, a trades van?” He pointed his finger towards the pavement. “Now get orf, before I call the police and yer gets taken in custody for causing a disturbance.”
Someone else inside the bus came forward, an elderly gentleman with a mustache and a black walking stick in his hand.
“Let the poor creature ride,” he said to the conductor. “I’m sure there’s room, if she holds it on her knee.”
“You sit down, sir, and don’t go interferin’ in what ain’t your business,” the conductor commanded him. “I’ll take care o’ this.”
“But …” the old gentleman began again.
“Sit down, you silly old duffer,” a woman called out from the inside. “Don’t interfere! ’E knows what ’e’s doing. Goodness sakes, you can’t ’ave people bringing on their laundry! Whatever next?”
“She said it’s not laundry—” The man was interrupted brusquely by the conductor.
“You go and sit down, sir, else I’ll ’ave to put yer orf too. We gotta keep to a time ’ere, yer know!” He turned back to Charlotte. “Now look ’ere, miss, are yer goin’ to get orf on yer own, or do I ’ave ter call the rozzers and ’ave yer taken in charge fer disturbin’ the peace?”
Charlotte was too furious to speak. She let out her breath in a gasp of rage and stepped back off the platform onto the pavement. She only thought to thank the old gentleman who had tried to help her when it was too late and the bus had jolted forward, overbalancing him until he fell against the conductor and had to pick himself up. The driver shouted at the horses again and cracked his whip in the air above their backs and they gathered speed, leaving Charlotte alone on the footpath with her cushions, and a monumental rage.
“Where on earth have you been?” Pitt said, staring at her when she finally arrived, hot, untidy, hair falling all over the place and her cheeks still burning with temper, the cushions clasped in her clenched fist.
“I have been in a hansom cab,” she replied heatedly. “That driveling officious little … swine wouldn’t let me on the omnibus!”
“What?” Pitt was confused. “What are you talking about? Everything’s here. The men have unpacked about half of it.”
“The impertinent, condescending, arrogant little toad wouldn’t let me on with the cushions …” she went on furiously.
“Why not?” He frowned at her. He could see that she was bristling with rage, but he did not perceive the reason. “What do you mean? Wasn’t it the ordinary omnibus?”
“Yes of course it was the ordinary omnibus!” she shouted. “The autocratic, bossy, self-opinionated little oaf thought the cushions were laundry, and he wouldn’t let me get on. He even threatened to call the police and have me taken in charge for disturbing the peace!”
Pitt’s mouth twitched and his eyes were very bright, but after a moment of total silence when her blazing expression dared him to be amused, he composed himself to suitable sympathy.
“I’m sorry. Let me take the cushions.” He held out his hand. She thrust them at him. “Where are the men now? I don’t see them.”
“Gone ’round the corner to the public house to have lunch. They’ll be back in half an hour or so to unpack the rest. Gracie is in the kitchen.” He gazed around the drawing room where they were standing. “This really is very nice indeed. You’ve done a magnificent work here.”
“Don’t humor me,” she said tartly. But she was longing to smile and she sniffed and stared around also. He was right, it was looking very good indeed. “Where are the children?”
“In the garden. The last I saw of them, Daniel was up the apple tree and Jemima had found a hedgehog and was talking to it.”
“Good.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Do you think they’ll like it?”
His expression answered her question without the necessity of words.
“Have you seen the green room upstairs? That’s going to be our bedroom. Here, let me show you.” He considered saying he really had not time, and changed his mind. And as soon as they were upstairs he was glad he had changed his mind. The room had a peace about it, a sense of apartness from the haste and the bustle of the streets. The wind was rustling the leaves and the light flickered in bright patterns over the walls. There was no other sound. He found himself smiling, and looking across at Charlotte. Her face was full of expectancy. “Yes,” he said with complete honesty. “I’ve never been in a better room in my life.”
The day of the by-election was gusty with sudden showers and bars of brilliant sun. Jack was out as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and Emily could not remain in the house alone on tenterhooks, even though she knew she was of little assistance, and now even moral support was not enough to still the nerves.
Nigel Uttley was also out early. He was smiling confidently, chatting with friends and supporters, but watching him closely one might see that something of his former swagger was gone and there was an edge of anxiety visible in him now and again.
A few at a time those men entitled to vote went to the polling station and cast their ballots. They emerged looking at no one and hurried away.
The morning passed slowly. Emily moved from one place to another with Jack, trying to think of something to say that was encouraging without building his confidence when he could so easily lose. And yet as she watched the men coming and going, overheard snatches of their conversation, she could not help the surge of hope inside her that he would win.
And there was only winning and losing. Tomorrow either he would be a member of Parliament, with all the opportunity and responsibility, the work, the chance of fame which it afforded, or else he would be the loser, with no position, no profession. Uttley would be there smiling, confident, the winner. She would have to try to comfort Jack, to help him believe in himself, find something to look forward to, some other cause to build and care about and labor towards.
By a little after two o’clock she was emotionally drained, and the whole length of the afternoon still stretched ahead of her. By five she was beginning to believe that Jack really could win. Her spirits soared with hope, then plummeted with despair.
By the time the polls closed she was exhausted, untidy, and generally more footsore than she could ever remember. She and Jack went home in silence, sitting close together in a hansom. They did not speak. Neither of them knew what to say, now that the battle was over and only the news of victory or defeat lay ahead.
At home they had a late supper, too tense to enjoy it. Emily could not have said afterwards what it had been, except she thought she recalled the pink of salmon on the plate, but whether it had been poached or smoked she could not say. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering when they would be finished counting and they would know.
“Do you think …?” she began, just as Jack spoke also.
“Nothing! It was of no importance. You?”
“Nothing much, just that it could be a long time. You don’t have to …”
She froze him with a look.
“All right,” he said apologetically. “I just thought …”
“Well don’t. It’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to wait until the last vote is counted and we know.”
He rose from the table. It was quarter past nine.
“Well let us at least do it in the withdrawing room, where we can be as comfortable as possible.”
She accepted with a smile and followed him into the hall. Almost as soon as they were out of the dining room door Harry, the youngest footman, appeared from the archway under the stairs, his fair hair untidy, his face flushed.
“They’re still counting, sir!” he said breathlessly. “I just came back from the ’all, but I reckon as they done most of ’em, an both piles looks about the same to me. You could win, sir! Mr. Jenkins says as you will!”
“Thank you, Harry,” Jack said with a voice very nearly level. “But I think perhaps Jenkins is speaking more from loyalty than knowledge.”
“Oh no, sir,” Harry said with unaccustomed assurance. “Everyone in the servants’ ’all reckons as yer goin’ ter win. That Mr. Uttley’s not near as clever as ’e thinks. Cook says as ’e’s overdone ’isself this time. An’ ’e’s not married neither, which Mrs. ’Edges says as makes ’im socially much sought after by rich ladies wif daughters, but they don’t trust ’im the same as a man wot’s got a family, like.” His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement, and he stood very straight, his shoulders back.
“Thank you,” Jack said gravely. “I hope you are not going to be too disappointed if I don’t win?”