by Anne Perry
“It makes me wonder a lot of things,” Pitt replied. He looked at Tellman’s dark, flat eyes, giving nothing. He decided to preempt the criticism he thought was in Tellman’s mind and say it himself. “I thought Winthrop’s murder was personal. Now it begins to look as if it was a lunatic after all.”
“Does, doesn’t it?” Tellman agreed. He lifted his chin a trifle, his face almost expressionless. “Maybe it isn’t a society case after all, just ordinary police work? Unless, of course, our lunatic is a gentleman?” A flash of humor crossed his eyes and vanished again. He said nothing, staring at Pitt and waiting for him to continue.
“I suppose lunacy can afflict any walk of life,” Pitt agreed, knowing that had nothing to do with what Tellman meant. “But less likely, simply because there are fewer of them. What does the medical examiner say? Any struggle?”
“No sir. No other injuries at all, or scratches. No bruises. Hit on the head, like Winthrop, that’s all.”
“And his clothes?” Pitt asked.
“Damp in a few places,” Tellman replied. “As if he lay on the ground. Muddy here and there, but nothing torn, and nothing soiled with blood, except around the neck as you would expect.”
“So he didn’t fight either,” Pitt said.
“Doesn’t look like it. Will you be dropping the case yourself then, sir?” He assumed an air of innocent inquiry.
It was absurd. His words were ambiguous, but always sufficiently respectful to keep him from charges of insolence, and underneath them his expression, his true meaning, was challenging, resentful, itching for Pitt to make a mistake professionally serious enough to lose him his position. They both knew it, although Tellman would have denied it with a smile if he had been accused.
“I should be delighted,” Pitt said, meeting Tellman’s eyes with an equally hard stare. “Unfortunately, I doubt the assistant commissioner will allow me to. Lord and Lady Winthrop seem to be of some importance, in his estimation, and that requires our very best effort, not only factually but apparently as well. However …” He leaned back a little farther in his chair and looked up at Tellman standing before the desk. He slid his hands into his pockets deliberately. “I certainly shall not take you off the case. You are far too important to it.” He smiled. “Not a good idea to take an officer off when it’s a series of murders anyway. You might have seen something too small or too subtle to put into your notes, but nonetheless of importance. One never knows. You may see something else, one day, and it will all make sense.”
Tellman glared at him.
“Yes sir,” he said with an answering smile that was a baring of the teeth, which were oddly irregular in his symmetrical lantern face. “I’m sure I shall solve it, one way or another.”
“Excellent. You’d better find out about this Aidan Arledge, who he was, if there’s any possible connection between him and Oakley Winthrop …”
“Probably just the same place,” Tellman said dismissively. “Lunatics don’t ask if people know each other.”
“I said a connection,” Pitt corrected. “Not necessarily a relationship. Did they look alike? Dress alike? Pass in exactly the same spot at the same time? Did they have some habit or interest in common? There must be some reason why our lunatic killed those two, and not any of the other people who were regularly in the park at night”
“Give ’im time,” Tellman said dryly. “That’s two in two weeks. At this rate he could do fifty in a year. That is if fifty people go on walking in the park. Which doesn’t seem very likely. I wouldn’t cross the park alone at night now.” He looked at Pitt steadily, and Pitt knew what he was thinking. They both knew the atmosphere of fear that was rising, the whispers, the jumpiness, the ugly jokes and the beginning of accusation and persecution of anyone new in an area or a trifle different. Some had even awoken memories of Whitechapel and that other awful madman never found.
“How far away was the bandstand from the Serpentine where Winthrop was found?” Pitt asked aloud.
“Just under half a mile.”
“Was he killed at the bandstand where your trumpeter found him?”
“No,” Tellman said immediately. “No blood at all, worth speaking of, and it would have been all over the place with a beheading like that. No grass on his feet even, but then the grass in the park hasn’t been cut for several days, from the look of it. None on my feet when I walked across it. But I’ll see the park keeper of course,” he added before Pitt could tell him.
“Clean wound, was it?” Pitt asked.
“No, much messier than the first. Took two or three strokes, from the look of it.” Tellman’s face crumpled in disgust in spite of himself. “Takes a pretty good blow to cut through a man’s neck. Maybe he was lucky the first time.”
“And he was hit on the head first as well?” Pitt pursued.
“Yes, looks like it. Bad bruise under the hair at the back.”
“Enough to render him senseless?”
“Don’t know. Have to see the medical examiner for that.”
“Any guess as to what time he died?”
Tellman shrugged. “About the same, midnight or soon after.”
“Witnesses?”
“Not yet, but I’ll find them.” There was a note of hard deliberation in Tellman’s voice, and looking at his face, Pitt felt sorry for any hapless passerby who refused to swear to all he knew.
“You’d better put someone else onto that, to begin with,” Pitt directed. “Find out who Aidan Arledge was, anything you can about him, where he lived, what he did, who he knew, if he owed money, had a mistress, anything you can.”
“Yes sir. I’ll put le Grange onto it.”
“You’ll do it yourself!”
“But that’s simple, Mr. Pitt,” he protested. “And probably doesn’t matter. Our lunatic won’t give a cuss who the man was. He probably never saw him before last night, and I daresay never knew his name anyway!”
“Maybe,” Pitt agreed. “But I still want a senior officer to go and speak to the widow.”
“Oh, I’ll do that.” Again Tellman bared his teeth. “Unless you think he may have been important enough you should do it yourself, sir?”
“I might. When you find out something about him!”
Tellman’s face hardened again. “Yes sir.” And without waiting to see if Pitt had any further instructions, he turned on his heel and went out, leaving Pitt angry and disturbed.
He sat still for some time, trying to absorb the impact of this new crime, the difference it made to all the conclusions he had come to, albeit tentatively. He had been so sure the murder of Winthrop was a personal crime, now this new development made nonsense of it. No sane lover, however vicious, murdered his rival, then some complete stranger as well. And if it were a grudge based on his professional life, no sailor, no matter how resentful of injustice, real or fancied, would kill an additional random victim also.
And why was Winthrop not robbed? Was it as simple as having been startled by something and fled?
But Arledge had not been murdered on the bandstand. Then where? And above all, why?
It was hard to think in the office. It was too quiet, too comfortable, and too prone to interruption.
He rose suddenly and without bothering to take his hat or jacket, strode out and down the stairs, calling over his shoulder to the desk sergeant, and went into the street.
Immediately the noise and clatter surrounded him and he felt a sudden overwhelming familiarity. This was the scene he was used to, the ordinary people pressing in on him, full of their own business, peddlers, costers, small tradesmen, women bound for markets to buy or to sell, running patterers calling out in their singsong voices the hasty rhymes of the latest news.
Around the corner out of Bow Street, along towards Drury Lane he passed pie sellers, sandwich men, and a woman with peppermint drinks, another with fresh flowers, all calling out after him, some even by name. He waved a hand in acknowledgment, but did not stop. Hansoms drove their way between slower carria
ges with tops open to show ladies out to see the sights, and to be seen.
He continued on southwards into the Strand. There hoardings advertised drama, music halls, concerts, and recitals. Magical names were written in giant letters: Ellen Terry, Marie Lloyd, Sarah Bernhardt, Eleanora Duse, Lillie Langtry.
Who was Aidan Arledge, and why had someone killed him so brutally? Was it really no more than the accident of having walked alone … He stopped. No, not in Hyde Park, not necessarily. They must find out where he had been killed. That was the most important thing. If it were really no more than a coincidence of place, then they must know what that place was.
Someone bumped into him, apologized icily and strode on.
“ ’Ere guv—wanna newspaper?” a ragged youth shouted cheerfully. “Another ’orrible murder in ’Yde Park! Mutilated corpse found on the bandstand! ’Omicidal madman loose in London! Jack the Ripper come back again! What are the rozzers doin’? ’Ere guv, d’yer want it or not? Read all about it ’ere!”
“Thank you.” Pitt took it absently and handed the boy a copper. He stood back from the fairway, leaning against the wall, and opened up the paper. The words were just as bad as the headlines: sensational horror, columns of speculation, and the inevitable criticism of the police. So far they had not mentioned the second victim’s name. At least Tellman had been swift enough to take the card case and keep it to himself. The widow, if there were one, should not discover her loss because some friend or servant had seen the blaring headlines in the newspaper.
He folded it up again and continued along the Strand. If it were a madman, a chance lunatic with no connection with either Winthrop or Arledge, it would be steady police work which caught him, if anything did. Tellman was good at that. Dammit, he was good at it himself! He knew the underworld and the petty thieves and forgers, macers, kidsmen, cardsharps and tricksters who would have wind of such a creature loose.
Then memory jarred his confidence. No one had caught the Ripper, no one had come anywhere near. There had been suspicions of a few people, but in the end the Ripper had eluded them all. History would remember the name with a shudder, and the superintendent who had been in charge of the case was a byword for his failure. Even Commissioner Warren had had to resign.
He wished fervently that Micah Drummond were still in charge. Promotion was a very double-sided coin. If he succeeded, Tellman could easily take the credit; if he failed, the assistant commissioner would blame him, and justly so. He gave the orders, he made the decisions.
He turned and walked back up towards Bow Street, passing a watch peddler he knew and nodding to him. Why on earth would Winthrop get into a pleasure boat with a stranger? It made no sense at all. There must have been a connection at least between Winthrop and his killer, even if not with Arledge. And he must find out more about Arledge.
He increased his pace, and reached the station with a sense of urgency.
The duty sergeant looked up, his face anxious. “Mr. Pitt, sir, Mr. Farnsworth’s here to see you, sir. And Mr. Pitt …”
“Yes.”
“He looks proper put out, sir.”
“I imagine he is,” Pitt said wryly. “But thank you for telling me.” And he stopped and took a moment to steady himself and try to prepare in his mind what he would say.
He arrived at his office with his head still a blank, and pushed the door open.
Farnsworth was sitting in the easy chair. He did not rise as Pitt came in, but merely looked up at him, his face dark.
“Good morning, sir.” Pitt closed the door and walked over to the other chair.
“Hardly!” Farnsworth snapped. “Have you seen the newspapers? Headlines in every one of them, and not surprising. Two headless corpses in two weeks. We’ve got another Ripper, Pitt, and what are you doing about it? I’ll tell you this, I don’t intend to lose my position because you don’t catch the lunatic who’s running amok. For God’s sake, sit down, man! I’m getting a crick in my neck looking at you.”
Pitt sat down immediately.
“Well, what are you doing?” Farnsworth demanded again. “Who is Arledge anyway? What was he doing in the park in the middle of the night? Was he picking up a woman? Is that the link? Were both these men picking up prostitutes, and some insane creature with a puritanical mind got it into his head to execute a kind of mad vengeance on them?” He pulled a face, doubt and anger in his eyes. “Although usually men with that kind of fixation kill the women, not the men.”
“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I’ve got Tellman out trying to find out who Arledge was, and everything we can about him.”
Farnsworth’s shoulders were stiff, pulling on the fine worsted of his coat.
“Tellman—Tellman? Is he good? I know that name …”
“Yes, he’s excellent,” Pitt said honestly.
“Ah—yes.” Farnsworth’s face lit with remembrance. “Drummond always spoke well of him. Bit rough, but intelligent, good at ordinary police work, knows his petty criminals. Good. Yes, use Tellman. What else?” He looked at Pitt with hard, accusing eyes, very clear light blue.
“I’ve got other men out searching the park, looking for any possible witnesses, although tonight will probably be better for that.”
“Tonight?” Farnsworth demanded with a frown. “You can’t afford to waste time until tonight, man. What’s the matter with you? For God’s sake, Pitt—can’t you see we are on the edge of another explosion of violence in the city? People are frightened. There is talk of anarchy, unrest, even murmurs of a republic. It’ll only take another string of unsolved murders like this and some revolutionary will strike a spark that will set London ablaze. You haven’t time to waste waiting around for evidence to come to you.” He thumped a tight fist into the arm of the chair, leaning forward in it uncomfortably. “We none of us have!”
“Yes sir, I am aware of that,” Pitt answered patiently. “But the most likely way for us to find a witness who may have seen something is to try those who are creatures of habit. The odd passerby who was there last night, and not ever before or again, we have no chance of finding unless they come to us. But those who go there regularly at that time will in all likelihood be there again tonight.”
“Yes, yes—I see.” Farnsworth was unable to relax, he still sat forward, all his muscles tight. “What else? You’ve got to do better than that. I don’t suppose anyone saw anything of value. This lunatic is certainly twisted, warped, mad—but that doesn’t mean he’s a fool. You’ve got to do a great deal more than hope, Pitt.” His voice rose and became sharper. “Abilene hoped with the Ripper—and look what happened to him!”
“He worked dammed hard too,” Pitt said defensively. He had not known Inspector Abilene personally, but he respected his efforts and knew he had done everything any man could to catch the Whitechapel murderer.
“And you had better work dammed hard too.” Farnsworth stared at him. “And something more. If you want to keep this office, we’ve got to get him.”
“I’ve also got men out trying to find out where the murder was committed,” Pitt added. Farnsworth was unreasonable. Even though Pitt understood the knowledge and the fear which drove him, it still angered him, though he could not afford to show it. It was a position he resented bitterly. There was no honor in placing a man so you could abuse his courage or his intelligence and leave him no recourse to retaliate, or even to defend himself. Now that he had power, he must make sure he did not do it so easily, regardless though Tellman might tempt him.
Did Farnsworth find him as irksome?
“What do you mean?” Farnsworth demanded, staring at Pitt. “Wasn’t he killed where he was found? How do you know?”
“No—no blood,” Pitt replied. “At the moment we don’t know if it was somewhere else in the park or a place entirely different, which could be anywhere.”
Farnsworth rose to his feet and began pacing the floor.
“What about Winthrop?” he demanded. “Wasn’t he killed in the boat? Isn’t that what yo
u said before?”
“Yes—with his head over the side. We can’t prove that, but it seems extremely likely.”
Farnsworth stopped abruptly.
“Why?”
“Because there was a fresh nick in the wood of the boat corresponding in size, position and depth with where a blade would have caught it if it had struck off someone’s head over the side,” Pitt answered. “Also he had a few pieces of cut grass on his shoes. He was quite dry himself, but his head was wet.”
“Good—good. That’s definite. So Winthrop was killed in the boat, and Arledge was killed somewhere else, but you don’t know where. I still think it could be connected with a prostitute. You’d better bring in all those who work around that area—and don’t tell me it’s several hundred. I know there are well over eighty thousand prostitutes in London. One of them may have seen something, may even know who this lunatic is. Do that, Pitt!”
“Yes sir,” Pit agreed immediately. Actually it was an extremely sensible idea. So far the connection did seem the most likely. Prostitutes had their own areas, and the number he would need to see was actually relatively small. Winthrop might indeed have gone to the park for that purpose, or even have thought of it afterwards, when an opportunity presented itself. That was an answer to the seemingly impossible question of why he would have got into a pleasure boat with anyone. He could have with a prostitute, if she had expressed the desire to do so as a preliminary to her favors. Winthrop would suspect nothing, especially since he was a sailor. It might seem to him an amusing thing to do.
“Well?” Farnsworth went on. “What else? What do we say to the newspapers? Can hardly tell them we suspect the late Captain Winthrop of soliciting a whore in the park. Apart from anything else, we’d be sued. Lord Winthrop has been onto the Home Secretary, saying too little has been done.”
“Tell them the assistant commissioner has made a penetrating and lucid suggestion which the police on the case are following,” Pitt suggested soberly. “Let the newspapers work out for themselves what it is. Tell them you cannot say until it is proved, in case you do someone an injustice.”
