The Hyde Park Headsman

by Anne Perry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Emily frowned at her.

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

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

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

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

  Charlotte did not even bother to answer her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What reason?”

  “On account of Mina.”

  “What had Arledge to do with Mina?”

  Charlotte explained the very little she knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Not in Dulcie, in him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oh,” she said uselessly. “I—er …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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