by Anne Perry
He walked over to it and bent to pick it up.
It was when he was thus contorted that he saw the foot sticking out of the undergrowth, and then the leg, and the sole of the other shoe where it lay at a different angle.
He let go of the bottle and moved over to the bushes. He gulped hard. Most probably it was someone who had drunk too much, but then there was always the other possibility. Ever since the first corpse had been found, he had been afraid of it, but still he had never really expected it to happen.
Gingerly, with his heart beating violently and his mouth dry, he grasped both the legs by the ankles and pulled.
The man was wearing dark trousers, navy or black, but they were damp from the dew and it was hard to tell. Then his body began to emerge, and Sammy was so appalled he dropped him and staggered back. He was a policeman! The uniform tunic and its silver buttons were unmistakable.
“Oh Gawd!” he moaned. This was no drunk. This was the Headsman’s work again! “Oh Gawd!” he sobbed. Perhaps he should not have moved him. Maybe they would blame him for it.
He backed away and fell over the bottle, sitting down very hard on the stony ground, which knocked out of him what little breath he had left.
He looked at the awful object again. Yes, he was definitely a rozzer. He could see the gleam of buttons all the way up to his neck.
On his hands and knees, he crawled back to the body, and without any clear decision in his mind, began to pull it again. It emerged from the bushes slowly, waist, chest, neck—head! Head! He was whole!
Sammy fell backwards in a heap, his hands shaking, his stomach lurching with relief. Stupid man! He should not have let his imagination do that to him. Headsman indeed! Suppose a rozzer could get drunk like anyone else?
He got up and then bent over the man to see just how drunk he was. His face was terribly pale, in fact his skin was almost white. As though he were dead!
“Oh Gawd!” he said again, this time in a low moan. Reluctantly he touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was cold. He felt his own stomach sick. He loosened the man’s collar and slid his hand down inside his clothes. The flesh was warm! He was alive! Yes—please God he was alive!
He studied the face for a few moments, but he could see no sign of a flicker in the eyelids. If he was breathing, it was too shallow to see.
There was nothing to do but go and find help. The man needed a doctor. He rose to his feet and hurried off, starting at a fast walk, and then changing his mind and running.
“What?” Pitt looked up from his desk as Tellman stood in front of him, his face grim, and yet with a perverse glint of victory in his eyes.
“Bailey,” Tellman repeated. “One of the park keepers found him this morning, about six o’clock. Been hit on the head and left under the bushes.” His eyes met Pitt’s unwaveringly.
Pitt felt ill. It was an agonizing mixture of pity and guilt.
“How badly is he hurt?” he said with dry lips.
“Hard to say,” Tellman replied. “He’s still senseless. Could be anything.”
“Well, what injuries has he?” Pitt heard his voice, rough and with a note of panic undisguisable.
“Doesn’t appear anything except hit on the head,” Tellman answered.
“Anyone know what happened?”
“No. Except, of course, common sense says it was the Headsman. He wasn’t on duty in the park, or anywhere near it. He was still chasing after Carvell’s statement that he was at the concert, where you sent him.” Still his eyes did not flicker from Pitt’s. “Looks as though he may have found something after all.”
There was no possible answer to that. Pitt rose to his feet. “Where is he?”
“They took him to the Samaritan Free Hospital, in Manchester Square. It’s only half a mile or so from where he was found.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Do you want me to arrest Carvell again?”
“Not until I have seen Bailey.”
“He can’t tell you anything.”
Pitt did not bother to reply, but walked past Tellman without looking at him, and ignoring his hat and coat, went out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time, passed the desk without speaking and went out. It took him nearly five minutes to find a hansom and direct it to Manchester Square.
He felt wretched. There was now no longer any reasonable doubt that it was Carvell. It was Carvell’s presence, or absence, at the concert Bailey had been checking. But the thought hurt. He had liked Carvell, felt an instinctive respect for him and a sympathy with his grief, which he still believed was real. And just as deep was his disillusion with himself, an awful sense of failure because he had been so deceived. His judgment had been fatally flawed.
He was guilty of Bailey’s injury, and if he died, of his death.
How could he have been so stupid, so unaware? And even now, riding along in the hansom, he still could not see it plainly, only the evidence made it no longer escapable.
The hansom stopped and he alighted, telling the driver to wait for him. Inside he found the long ward where Bailey was lying stiff, white-faced and motionless. He was dressed in a rough calico nightshirt and covered with a sheet and a gray blanket. By the side of his cot stood a young doctor, frowning and pursing his lips.
“How is he?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.
The doctor looked at him wearily. “Who are you?”
“Superintendent Pitt, Bow Street. How is he?”
“Hard to say.” The doctor shook his head. “Hasn’t stirred since they brought him in, but he’s warmed up to a decent temperature at last. His breathing is near normal and his heart is beating quite strongly.”
“He’ll be all right?” It was more a hope than a belief.
“Can’t say. Possibly.”
“When might he be able to speak?”
The doctor shook his head, and looked up at Pitt at last. “I can’t say, Superintendent. Can’t even say for sure that he will. And even if he does, he may not remember anything. Could be in a very poor state of mind. You’ll have to be prepared for that. I would go on with your investigation without relying on him, if I were you.”
“I see. Do everything you can for him, won’t you? Don’t worry about the cost.”
“Of course.”
Pitt left feeling even more wretched and discouraged, and acutely guilty.
He arrived back at Bow Street to find Giles Farnsworth in his office, his face pale, his hands clenched by his sides.
“You let Carvell go again,” he said between his teeth. “Now he has as near as dammit murdered one of your own men.” He paced to the mantelpiece and turned. “I always feared this job was too big for you, but Drummond was adamant. Well, he was wrong. Worst misjudgment of his career. I’m sorry Pitt, but your incompetence is not acceptable.”
He crossed the floor again and swung back.
“You are dismissed. You will complete the background work on this case, then return to your previous rank. You’d better move to another station. I’ll think which one when I have time. Maybe somewhere on the outskirts.” And without waiting for Pitt to reply, he went to the door. He hesitated with his hand on the knob. “I’ve told Tellman to arrest Carvell again. They should have him by now. You can start to arrange the evidence ready for the trial. When you have finished that, you can take a few days off. Good day.” He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving Pitt alone, guilty and totally wretched.
11
C HARLOTTE WAS DEVASTATED when Pitt told her that he had been dismissed. Perhaps she should have realized more fully how real was the possibility, but her mind had been too filled with other things: the new house, and of course selling the old one, Jack’s candidacy, Caroline’s love affair, now her marriage. She had never really believed this would happen—it was so unjust!
Her heart sank for him, for his pain and humiliation, but she was furious for the unfairness of it. Then lastly she was afraid for herself and her children. What about the new house now? How would
they afford it? And the old house was gone, they could not simply move back.
All these thoughts and emotions raged through her and she knew they must show in her face. She had never been good enough at concealing her feelings, but she did all she could to hide them, even as the blood drained from her cheeks and her stomach went sick and cold.
“We’ll manage,” was all she contrived to say, and her voice was rasping, her mouth was so dry.
Pitt looked at her, his own face pale, his eyes hurt and tired.
“Of course we will,” he said gently, although he had no idea yet how. The thought of going back to work as an inspector again, in some other station miles away, was too bitter to do more than hear and turn away from until the reality of it forced itself upon him and he had to come to terms with it. Perhaps he would be able to persuade Farnsworth at least to make it at Central London station, so he could work in the area he knew and not spend half his time going backwards and forwards on omnibuses. He would not be able to afford a hansom.
For some time they both sat in silence, close together. Words would not help. There was nothing comforting to say except the banalities they had clearly both thought of, and dismissed.
At last Charlotte moved a little and sat more upright. She had lit the parlor fire, not because it was cold but because the flicker of the flames was comforting, creating briefly a little island from the rest of the world.
“Did Carvell finally admit it?” she asked.
“No.” His mind was suddenly filled with the image of Carvell’s wretched face, white and frightened, as he was taken down to the cells, his eyes meeting Pitt’s in an abject plea. “No, he denied it passionately.”
Charlotte stared at him.
“You believe him, don’t you?” she said after a moment or two. “You still don’t really think he did it!”
He sat still for several moments before replying. His face was crumpled with confusion, but there was no wavering in his voice when at last he answered.
“No. No, I can’t believe he would willingly have hurt Aidan Arledge. And if he had killed him in a fit of blind passion and rage, I think he would be a broken man afterwards, and not even attempt to escape. In fact, I honestly believe if he had done it, he would accept, even welcome, punishment.”
“Then you’ve got to find out who did do it, Thomas! You can’t let him be hanged for it!” She knelt in front of him earnestly, her voice strong, full of entreaty. “There must be something. No matter how clever he is, the Headsman will have left something undone, some thread that if we pull at it, carefully, we’ll unravel the truth.”
“That’s a nice thought,” he said, smiling at her. “But I’ve racked my brains to think of what that could be, and I’m no further forward.”
“You are too close to it,” she said immediately. “You are looking at the details, instead of the overall picture. What have all the victims in common?”
“Nothing,” he said simply.
“They must have! Winthrop and Scarborough were both bullies, and you said that the omnibus conductor was an officious little man. Perhaps he was a bully too.”
“But Arledge wasn’t. By every account he was a most courteous and gentle man.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at him dubiously.
“Yes, I am sure. No one at all had anything ill to say of him.”
She thought for a moment, and he waited in silence.
“Is it possible all but one were killed simply to hide the one that someone really wanted dead?” she said after several moments. “Maybe the others were random, and it didn’t matter who they were.”
“Doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head, putting out his hand to push away a stray strand of her hair which had fallen across her brow. “Scarborough was lured out of his own home to be killed. That’s hardly random. Yeats was miles away in Shepherd’s Bush, Arledge we don’t know, and Winthrop was boating on the Serpentine, which in itself is ridiculous. Why would anyone go boating in the middle of the night? No one would do it with a stranger, and even with a friend it is hard to imagine.”
“The Headsman wanted him there so he could kill him over the side,” she answered.
“But how would he get him there? How would you persuade someone to get into a boat in the middle of the night?”
She drew in her breath. “Ah—I should—I should say I had dropped something in the water, off a bridge or something, and if I did not retrieve it, it would be lost,” she said with satisfaction. “I should first have dropped in my hat, or whatever came to mind.”
“Hat!” He sat upright, unintentionally knocking her sideways.
“What?” She scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Thomas?”
“Hat,” he repeated. “There was a hat found when we dragged it! It wasn’t Winthrop’s. We didn’t connect it, but that’s what it could have been. Put there as a reason to lure him into the boat. You are brilliant! It’s so simple, and so effective.” He kissed her with enthusiasm, and then stood up and began to pace the floor. “It begins to make sense,” he went on, his voice rising with excitement. “Winthrop was a naval man. It might be quite natural to appeal to him to assist in getting to the hat before it sank. The Headsman could quite easily affect to be useless with the oars. Many people are.”
He waved his arms eloquently. “He would request Winthrop’s assistance. Winthrop would naturally give it. They would both get into the boat—and the next thing the Headsman points to something in the water, Winthrop leans over the side—and …” He brought down his arms with his hand stiff like a blade. “Winthrop is beheaded.”
“What about the others?” she asked. “What about Arledge?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know where Arledge was killed.”
“But Scarborough? And the omnibus conductor?” she persisted.
“Scarborough was killed on Rotten Row, right where he was found. The horse trough was full of blood.”
“And Yeats?”
“Near Shepherd’s Bush terminal. Then taken in a gig to Hyde Park.”
She thought for a moment. “Makes it look as if Arledge was the one that was most important, doesn’t it,” she said at last. “Except that he wasn’t first. Every time I think it makes sense”—she shrugged, sitting back again—“then it doesn’t.”
“I know.” He stopped and held out his hand. “Enough for now. I’ll start again tomorrow. Come to bed.”
She took his hand and stood up slowly, but her face was still tight in concentration. Even when walking up the stairs her mind was working, turning over ideas, beginning plans. Only when she was in her nightgown and pulling the sheets up around her neck and snuggling closer to Pitt did she finally forget it and think of other things.
In the morning Pitt did not go to Bow Street; there was no point. His mind was whirling with ideas, uncertain, many of them half formed and depending upon facts and impressions he had yet to confirm. He could not serve his purpose by starting until the evening. He spent the day in trivial duties, checking and rechecking of details. Then at a quarter to eight he began. He wanted to see Victor Garrick, but did not have his address. He knew Mina Winthrop would know it, accordingly he took the omnibus to Curzon Street and alighted on the pavement in the clear spring dusk.
“Yes sir?” the parlormaid said inquiringly.
“May I please speak with Mrs. Winthrop?” he asked courteously.
“Yes sir. If you care to come this way, I shall see if she is at home.”
It was the usual polite fiction, and he followed her in and waited obediently. Mina came after less than five minutes, looking charming in pale lavender muslin. As soon as she saw his surprise she blinked.
“Good evening, Superintendent. I am afraid you have caught me unexpectedly. I am not suitably dressed.” It was an understatement. She looked years younger than when he had seen her immediately after her husband’s death, dressed entirely in black and looking frightened and bewildered. Now her cheeks had color, her long, slender neck w
as bare but for a heavy bead necklace, and only because he knew it was there could he see the faintest purpling of bruises. To anyone else they would merely have seemed shadows. There was a spontaneity in her movement, as if she were full of purpose.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you at all, Mrs. Winthrop,” he apologized in turn. “I came because I wished to call upon Victor Garrick and I do not know his address, except that it is close by here.”
“Oh! Well it is fortunate you have come,” she said quickly. “They are two doors away, but you would have had a wasted journey anyway. He is presently with us.”
“Indeed. Would it be too much of an intrusion for me to speak with him? I will not detain him long.”
“Of course not. I am sure if there is anything he can do to help he would be happy to.” She frowned. “Although I understand from my brother that you have caught the man. What more can there be?”
“Some details to learn, so we are not taken unaware by a clever lawyer,” he replied untruthfully.
“Then please come through to the garden room, Superintendent. Victor has been playing for us, and it will be a most pleasant place to sit.”
He thanked her and accepted willingly, following her as she turned and led the way along the passage and into one of the most charming rooms he had ever seen. French windows opened straight into a small walled garden filled with plants with every shape of leaf. All the flowers were white: white roses, plantain lilies, carnations and pinks, alyssum, Solomon’s seal, and many others of which he did not know the names.
Inside, the walls and curtains were green with a delicate white floral print, and a large bowl was filled with further white flowers. The last of the gentle evening light shone in, making the room warm and still giving the illusion of the freshness of a garden.
In the corner Victor Garrick sat with his cello. Bart Mitchell stood by the mantelpiece. There was no one else present.