The Hyde Park Headsman

by Anne Perry

  Ridiculously, Emily found there were tears in her eyes.

  “No—I shall—I shall hurt for you so terribly!” She sniffed and fished for a handkerchief unsuccessfully.

  Caroline passed her one from under her pillow.

  “That is the price of loving, my dear,” she said softly. “Usually it is parents who agonize for their children, but sometimes it is the other way too. The only way to avoid that is not to love anyone enough for their pain to hurt you. But that is like having part of you that is dead.”

  Emily let out her breath in a long sigh. There was nothing to say to that, no argument.

  “Tell me about the campaign,” Caroline suggested, retrieving her handkerchief. “And about the new house of Charlotte’s—have you seen it?”

  “Yes. It’s awful, at the moment. But it could be really very nice indeed, with a great deal of work, and at least a hundred pounds spent on it, possibly even two.” And she proceeded to tell Caroline about it.

  As she was leaving half an hour later she met her grandmother in the hallway. The old lady was dressed entirely in black, as was her custom; she believed widows should behave like widows. She leaned heavily on her stick and watched Emily come all the way down the stairs to the bottom before she spoke.

  “Well,” she said viciously, “so you have been to see your Mama. The place looks like a harlot’s place of work! She’s taken leave of her senses—not that she ever had much. It was my poor Edward who kept her in some sort of dignity while he was alive. He must be turning in his grave to see this.” She banged her cane on the floor. “I don’t think I can remain here any more. It is all beyond tolerating. I shall come and stay with you.” She twitched angrily and turned to stare up the hall. “Staying with Charlotte is out of the question. Always was. She married beneath her. I couldn’t abide that.”

  Emily was aghast.

  “Because Mama has had her bedroom redecorated?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “If you don’t care for it, don’t go in there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” the old lady said, swinging back to face her. “Do you suppose she did it like that for herself? She intends having that man in there. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Emily really did not think she could endure having Grand-mama living with her. Even Ashworth House, enormous as it was, was not big enough to share with the old lady.

  “I’m not living in a house of scandal and immorality,” the old lady went on vehemently, her voice rising in both pitch and volume. “That my old age should have come to this!” Her boot-button eyes were brilliant. “I shall go down to my grave in sorrow.”

  “Rubbish!” Emily said tartly. “Nothing has happened yet, and it probably never will.” Although she did not entirely believe that, and she avoided the old woman’s stare.

  “Don’t you ‘rubbish’ me, my girl!” Grandmama banged the stick again furiously, scarring the wooden floor with its metal ferrule. “I’ve seen what I’ve seen, and I know a loose woman when I have one under my roof.”

  “It’s not your roof. It’s Mama’s. Anyway, you’ve never had a loose woman here so you wouldn’t know one if you had.”

  “You remember who you are speaking to, my girl,” the old woman snapped. And as Emily moved towards the front door, she added, “And stand still when I’m talking to you. Where are your nerves, I should like to know.”

  “There’s nothing else to say, Grandmama. I must return home. I have social duties to perform.”

  The old lady let out a long rumble of disgust, banged her stick on the floor one more time, then turned on her heel and stumped off.

  Emily escaped while the chance was good.

  She did not mention the matter to Jack at all. There was no purpose to be served by it, and the thought of Grandmama coming to live in Ashworth House, no matter how unlikely, would be sufficient to distract his mind totally from the business in hand.

  Instead she went straight upstairs and burst into the nursery quarters. She startled the elderly, comfortable nurse sitting in her rocking chair holding the baby, almost asleep. The nursery maid, Susie, dropped the linen she was folding, and Edward abandoned the last of his rice pudding and left the table without permission.

  “Mama!” he cried, running to greet her. “Mama! I learned all about King Henry the Sixth today. Do you know he had eight wives and he cut all their heads off. Do you think the Queen will cut Prince Albert’s head off if she gets tired of him?” He stopped in front of her, upright, slender, his face shining with enthusiasm, his fair hair so like hers, falling over his brow. He was dressed in a loose white shirt with a wide collar, and dark striped pants. He jiggled from one foot to the other in excitement. “Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

  “No it wouldn’t,” Emily said in surprise, reaching out her hand to touch him gently. She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him close to her, but she knew he would hate it. He considered it babyish, and submitted to a good-night kiss only under protest. “And it was Henry the Eighth,” she corrected: “He only had six wives, and he only took some of their heads off.”

  He looked disappointed. “Oh. What happened to the rest of them?”

  “One died, he divorced one, or maybe two, and one outlived him.”

  “But—he beheaded the rest?”

  “I expect so. What else have you done today?”

  “Sums—and geography.”

  Miss Roberts, his governess, appeared in the schoolroom doorway. She was a clergyman’s daughter, trim and plain and now nearly thirty years old, too old to hope for marriage. She was obliged to earn her living, and this was an acceptable way to do it. Emily liked her and looked forward to her caring for and teaching Evie in time.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Roberts,” she said cheerfully. “Is he learning well?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Radley,” Miss Roberts said with a small downward curl of her mouth. “Rather more interested in intrigues and battles than laws and treaties. But I suppose that is natural. I like Queen Elizabeth, myself.”

  “So do I,” Emily agreed.

  Edward looked from one to the other of them, but he was too well disciplined to interrupt.

  “You have not finished your rice pudding,” Miss Roberts told him.

  He looked up at her through his eyelashes. “It’ll be cold.”

  “And whose fault is that?” she asked.

  He considered arguing, regarding her face for a moment, then thought better of it. It was undignified to argue and lose, especially to a woman, and as a young viscount he was very sensitive to his dignity, which was hard enough for a seven-year-old boy surrounded by women to maintain. He walked nonchalantly back to the table, climbed into his chair and picked up the spoon.

  Emily met Miss Roberts’s eyes, and they both hid smiles.

  Miss Roberts returned to the schoolroom.

  The nursery maid departed with the pile of laundry to put it in the night nursery.

  Emily turned to the nurse and held out her arms to take the baby.

  “She’s just gone to sleep, poor little soul,” the nurse protested. She was a big comfortable woman who had been a wet-nurse in her youth, frequently taking the infants of noble houses into her own home to care for them and breast-feed them for up to the first year of their lives, or even longer, before returning them to their stately nurseries and the care of nannies, nursery maids and eventually governesses and tutors. She liked them best up to the age of about three, although she was prone to getting fond of an individual child and finding it hard to hand over her responsibility. Emily was not going to be refused. She wanted to hold the baby in her arms, feel its weight resting against her, touch its silken skin and look at the tiny face. She remained with her arms held out.

  The nurse also knew better than to argue. She rose and passed over her charge.

  Evie did not stir as Emily took her and rocked her gently. After several moments during which the nurse turned away and busied herself, although in truth there was nothing to do, Emily be
gan to stroke the baby’s downy head, and finally succeeded in waking her up. She sat down in the rocking chair and started to talk to her, largely nonsense, and after about fifteen minutes—during which the nursery routine was set back, the nursery maid could not clear up, the nurse had nothing useful to do, and Edward finished his tea and became late for his bedtime story—eventually Evie began to cry.

  This time the nurse’s patience was at an end. She took Evie without a word, dipped a piece of cotton in sugar water and popped it in her mouth, and quite firmly told Emily that it was time everyone resumed their proper duties.

  Obediently Emily bade Edward good-night, without kissing him, which at first pleased him enormously, then on second thought left him feeling a little uncertain. Perhaps so much dignity was not really necessary yet? However, having made the decision he was not going back on it, especially in front of Roberts, whose opinion he valued. Tomorrow he would offer his cheek to be kissed, and thus have taken the initiative himself. That was an excellent solution. He went to bed well satisfied. Besides, the present bedtime story, about King Arthur, was a particularly good one.

  Emily watched him go with a touch of emotion inside her, then, with a brief word to the nursing staff, turned and went back downstairs to wait for Jack.

  He came in at about seven o’clock, having spent the whole day pursuing political affairs of one sort or another, and was delighted to forget them even for the short while before dinner and the arrival of another group to be pursued or persuaded. The date for the by-election had been set, three weeks from then, and his mind was fully taken up with preparations.

  The following morning Emily was in the breakfast room, one of her favorite places in the house, when Jack came in carrying two newspapers. The room was octagonal with three doors, one of them to the small shaded garden to the east of the house, and the morning sun shone through the glass of that door onto the warm parquet floor and cabinets of delicate, floral porcelain against two of the walls.

  “It’s all over the place,” he said, putting the newspaper on the corner of the table and regarding her gravely. “It’s still on the front pages of the Times.” She did not need to ask what he was referring to. The last subject they had discussed before going to bed had been the Hyde Park murders, and it required no explanation that he should continue now.

  “What do they say?” she asked.

  “The Times is largely trying to keep some sort of calm,” he answered. “One of the columnists is talking about madness, and saying it is on the increase. According to one of their correspondents there is some Viennese school of medicine which explains it all in terms of what happened in infancy, and talks of dreams and repression and so on.” He sat down at the table, reached for the bell, but before he could ring it the butler appeared. “Egg and bacon and potatoes, please, Jenkins,” Jack said absently.

  “Cook has some very fine deviled kidneys, sir,” Jenkins suggested. “On a little fresh toast?”

  “Does that mean you have no eggs?” Jack looked up at him.

  “No sir, we have at least three dozen eggs.” Jenkins kept a perfectly sober face. “Shall I bring eggs, sir?”

  “No, the kidneys sound excellent,” Jack replied. He looked across at Emily inquiringly.

  “Fruit compote and toast,” Emily answered.

  “Don’t you get bored with it?” He frowned, but his eyes were gentle.

  “Not at all. Apricots, if Cook still has any left, Jenkins.” She could not permit Jack to know, and even less the servants, but she had every intention of getting her figure back to the exquisite shape it had been before Evie’s advent, and keeping it so.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jenkins still had difficulty in not calling her “my lady,” as he had when George had been alive and she was Lady Ashworth. He withdrew obediently about his errand.

  “Probably no bacon,” Emily said with a smile. “What else?”

  Jack was used to her patterns of thought. He knew she meant the newspapers again. The subject was far from exhausted.

  “An eminent doctor gives his opinion as to how the crimes were committed,” he continued. “Not very helpful. One writer is convinced it is a woman—I don’t know why. Someone else has written about the phases of the moon, and predicted when the next one will occur.”

  Emily shivered and pulled a face. “Poor Thomas!”

  Jack looked at her gravely. “But mostly it is criticism of the police, their methods, their character, even their existence.” He let out his breath with a sigh. “Uttley has written a long article which the Times has printed, and I am afraid he is extremely hard on Thomas, although he doesn’t refer to him by name. Of course his purpose is to make political capital from his own ideas and he doesn’t care whom he hurts on the way.”

  Emily reached for the paper, and had it in her hands when Jenkins returned with Jack’s kidneys and her fruit compote. The butler glanced at her and smothered his disapproval with difficulty. In his day ladies did not read anything in the newspapers but that which their husbands gave them, which would be the court circular, the marriages and obituaries, and if they were fortunate, the theater criticisms and reviews. Political opinion and commentary was not suitable for women. It excited the blood and disturbed the imagination. He had once been so bold as to remark so to Lord Ashworth when he had been alive, but unfortunately he had been disregarded.

  “Thank you, Jenkins,” Jack said absently, and Emily echoed his words with even less attention. Jenkins withdrew with a sigh.

  “I know it,” Emily said, ignoring her breakfast and beginning to read. “ ‘There is no question that when Her Majesty’s Government created a police force to serve the citizens of London, it made a brilliant and decisive step for the good of every person in this teeming heart of the Empire. But is this present-day force what these men had in mind?

  “ ‘In the autumn of 1888 there was a series of gruesome and terrifying murders in Whitechapel which has gone down in history as among the most savage in all human experience. They have also gone down in history as unsolved. The very best our police can do, after months of investigation, is say “We do not know.”

  “ ‘Is this what we deserve, is this what we are purchasing with our money?

  “ ‘I think not.

  “ ‘We need a more professional force, men with not only dedication but the skill and education to prevent this sort of crime from recurring.

  “ ‘We have an empire which stretches round the world. We have conquered and subdued wild nations of warriors. We have settled lands in the frozen north, in the burning south, the plains of the west and the jungles and deserts of the east. We have planted the flag on every continent on earth, and taken law and government, religion and language, to every people. Can we really not control the unruly elements of our own capital city?

  “ ‘Gentlemen, we must do better. We must change this sorry story of incompetence and failure. We must reorganize our forces of law and make sure they are the best in the world before we become a laughingstock, a byword for incompetence, and we will have every criminal in Europe descending upon us to make good his chances.

  “ ‘We do not need the soft options of the Liberal party. We need strength and resolve.’ ”

  Emily put it down with disgust. She should not have been surprised and indeed she was not, but it still made her angry. She looked up at Jack.

  “It’s so stupid,” she said helplessly. “This is all just words. He doesn’t make any actual suggestions. What else could Thomas do?”

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “If I did I would be the first to go to him and tell him. But it isn’t only finding the solution.” He bit into his deviled kidneys and savored them with pleasure. He waited till he had swallowed the first mouthful before he continued. “It’s finding the solution that society wants,” he finished.

  “Which is what? Some lunatic escaped from Bedlam that we can all disown, and say it has nothing to do with us?” she retorted, stirring the compote viciously. “If it isn
’t, then we can hardly blame Thomas.”

  “Emily, my dearest, people have blamed the messenger for the contents of the message as long as history has been recorded. Of course they can—and they will.”

  “That’s childish.” She swallowed a mouthful and it went the wrong way. She nearly choked before recovering enough to glare at him.

  “Of course it is,” he agreed, pouring her a cup of tea and passing it. “What has that to do with it? You don’t have to be in politics long to know that an awful lot of people’s reactions can be childish, and we usually cater to the very worst of those once we begin trying to beat each other.”

  “What are you going to say against Uttley? You’ve got to say something. You can’t let him get away with this.”

  “I don’t think Thomas will thank me for defending him—” he began.

  “Not Thomas,” she interrupted. “You! You can’t sit here and let Uttley bring the battle to you. You’ve got to attack.”

  He thought for several moments, and she waited with difficulty, eating the rest of her compote without tasting it.

  “There is no point whatever in talking figures to people,” he said thoughtfully, setting down his fork as his meal was finished. “It has no emotion.”

  “Don’t defend,” she argued. “You can’t defend effectively anyway. All the criminals caught don’t amount to anything compared with the ones that are still at large—not in people’s minds.” She swallowed. “Anyway, it’s bad to look defensive. It isn’t your fault that the police are inefficient. And don’t let him push you into a position where people imagine it is.” She reached for the silver teapot. “Would you care for some more?”

  He pushed forward his cup and she poured for him.

  “Attack him,” she went on. “What are his weaknesses?”

  “Fiscal affairs, the national economy …”

  “That won’t do.” She dismissed it out of hand. “It’s boring, and people don’t understand it anyway. You can hardly talk about shillings and pence on the hustings. People won’t listen.”

  “I know that,” he agreed with a smile. “But you asked me what his weaknesses were.”