The Hyde Park Headsman

by Anne Perry

  When talking to Emily about it she had thought she knew precisely what color she wished for each room, but when it came to the details of purchasing paper and paint, she was not at all certain. And if she were honest, her attention was not totally upon the matter. She could not help but be aware of the newspaper headlines and the tone of the articles beneath them criticizing the police in general—and the man in charge of the Hyde Park case in particular. It was grossly unfair. Pitt was reaping the whirlwind sown by the Whitechapel murders and the Fenian outrages and a dozen other things. There was also the general unrest in terms of political change, teeming poverty, ideas of anarchy come over from Europe as well as native-bred dissension, the instability of the throne with an old, sour queen shut away in perpetual mourning, and an heir who squandered his time and money on cards, racehorses and women. Headless corpses in Hyde Park were simply the focus for the anger and the fear.

  It ought to be some ease of conscience to know that, but it was no use whatsoever as a defense. Thomas was so new in his promotion. Micah Drummond would have understood it; he was a gentleman, a member of the Inner Circle, until he broke from them with all the risk that that entailed, and a personal friend of many of his equals and superiors. Thomas was none of these things, and would never be. He would have to earn every step of his way—and prove himself again and again.

  She stared around the room, her mind refusing to concentrate. Would it really be a good idea to have it green? Or would it be too cold after all? Whose opinion could she ask? Caroline was busy with Joshua, and anyway Charlotte did not want to see her and be reminded of that particular problem.

  Emily was busy with Jack and the political battle that was now so close.

  Pitt was working so hard she hardly ever saw him for more than a few moments when he came home at night, hungry and exhausted. Although tonight she would have to make an exception, no matter what the circumstances, to pass on Gracie’s news, when she had decided how to. But he certainly did not need to be troubled with domestic decisions—even if he had had the faintest idea what color a room was. So far in their married life he had either liked a room or disliked it, beyond that he had never expressed any observation at all.

  Then a snatch of conversation came back to her from the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. She had discussed interiors with the widow, Mina. She had not really intended to, but it had seemed something in which she took pleasure and, to judge from her remarks, had some talent. She would ask Mina’s opinion. It would serve two purposes, the relatively insignificant one of deciding whether to paper the room green or not, and the far larger, and more urgent, one of perhaps helping Thomas. With Gracie’s discovery it had become ever more pressing that they learn a little more about the captain, and if possible his habits.

  There was no need to consider the decision. It was made. She was hardly dressed for calling, but it would be a waste of time to go back to Bloomsbury and change, and then have to take the omnibus back to Curzon Street. It would be extravagant to call a hansom. She did at least wash her face and make some rapid repairs to her hair before going outside into the sun and walking briskly to the nearest omnibus stop.

  She did not seriously consider the impertinence of what she was doing until she stood on the doorstop of the late Captain Winthrop’s house, saw the drawn blinds and the dark wreath on the door, and wondered what on earth she would say.

  “Yes ma’am?” the maid said in little more than a whisper.

  “Good afternoon,” Charlotte replied, aware that her face was suddenly very pink. “Mrs. Winthrop was kind enough to give me some most excellent advice a few days ago. I am now sorely in need of some more, and I wondered if she would spare me a few moments of her time. I shall surely understand if it is not convenient. I am abashed at having called without informing her first. Her kindness quite made me forget my manners.”

  “I’ll ask ’er, ma’am,” the maid said doubtfully. “But I’m sure as I can’t say if she will, the Ouse bein’ in mournin’ like.”

  “Of course,” Charlotte agreed.

  “ ’O? shall I say ’as called, ma’am?”

  “Oh—Mrs. Pitt. We met at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service. I was with Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll ask, if you’ll be good enough to wait ’ere.” And she left Charlotte standing in the hall while she scurried away.

  It was not the maid who returned, but Mina herself, still dressed in what appeared to be the same black gown with its very high neck and lace-pointed cuffs. She was as tall as Charlotte but much slenderer, almost waiflike with her fair skin and impossibly fragile neck. She looked tired, bruised around the eyes, as if in the privacy of her own room she had wept herself to exhaustion, but her face was full of pleasure at the sight of Charlotte.

  “How nice of you to call,” she said immediately. “You have no idea how lonely it is sitting here day after day, no one coming except to pay respects, and it isn’t seemly for me to go out anywhere.” She smiled briefly, half embarrassment, half shame, seeking Charlotte’s understanding. “Perhaps I shouldn’t even think like that, let alone say it, but grief is not helped by being by oneself in a darkened house.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” Charlotte agreed with a wave of both sympathy and relief. “I wish society would allow people to cope with loss in whatever way is easiest for them, but I doubt it ever will.”

  “Oh that would be a miracle,” Mina said hastily. “I wouldn’t look for anything so—so incredibly unlikely. But I’m delighted you have called. Please come into the withdrawing room.” She half turned, ready to lead the way. “The sun shines in there, and I refuse to lower the blinds—unless my mother-in-law should call. But that is not probable.”

  “I should be happy to. It sounds a delightful room,” Charlotte accepted, following her across the hall and down a passageway. She noticed Mina walked very uprightly, almost as if she were too stiff to bend. “It is about just such a matter that I would appreciate your advice.”

  “Indeed?” Mina indicated a chair as soon as they were in the room, which was indeed most attractive, and at the moment filled with afternoon sunlight. “Please tell me how I am to be of service to you. Would you care for tea while we are talking?”

  “Oh that would be most welcome,” Charlotte agreed, both because she would very much like a drink after the omnibus ride and because it insured that she stay longer without having to seek an excuse.

  Mina rang the bell with enthusiasm and ordered tea, sandwiches, pastries and cakes, then when the maid was gone, settled herself to give Charlotte her entire attention. She sat on the forward edge of the chair, hands folded in her lap, half concealed by the lace, but her face was full of interest.

  Charlotte was acutely aware of the underlying tragedy in the house, the unnatural silence, the strain in Mina so close under the surface of her composure. However, she explained that she was moving house, and all the things that had yet to be done before that could be accomplished satisfactorily. “I simply cannot decide whether the room would be too cold if I had it papered in green,” she finished.

  “What does your husband say?” Mina inquired.

  “Oh nothing. I have not asked him,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t think he will have an opinion before it is done, only afterwards if it is not agreeable. Although I daresay he will not even know why he does not like it.”

  Mina shrugged very slightly. “My husband had most definite opinions. I had to be careful if I chose to change anything.” A look of guilt filled her face, sudden and startlingly painful. “I am afraid my taste was sometimes vulgar.”

  “Oh surely not?” Charlotte said quickly. “Perhaps he merely meant that his own taste was exceedingly traditional. Some men hate any change, no matter how much it is actually an improvement.”

  “You are very kind, but I am sure I must have been in the wrong. I had the breakfast room repapered while he was at sea. I should not have done it without asking him. He was most vexed when h
e came home and saw it.”

  “Was it very different?” Charlotte inquired, uncertain whether she should pursue a subject which seemed to cause such distress. To look back on a quarrel, perhaps unsolved, when the other person was no longer alive and so beyond reconciliation, must be one of the most terribly painful aspects of bereavement. She longed to be of comfort, and had no idea how.

  “Oh yes—I’m afraid so,” Mina went on quietly, memory filling her voice, and there was pleasure in spite of the shivering pain. “I did everything in warm yellow. It looked as if it were entirely filled with sunlight I loved it.”

  “It sounds very delightful,” Charlotte said sincerely. “But you speak as though it were no longer so. Did he insist that you change it?”

  “Yes.” Mina turned away for a moment, averting her face. “That was what he said was vulgar, everything in tones and shades of the one color, apart from the furniture, of course. That remained mahogany. Actually”—she bit her lip as if even now it still needed some apology or explanation—“it has not yet been done. Oakley locked the door and said we should not use the room until it had been put back as it was before. Would you care to see it?”

  “Oh indeed.” Charlotte rose to her feet immediately. “I should like to very much.” She meant it both for the sake of seeing what such a room would be like, and even more to find out what Oakley Winthrop had considered so offensive that he had been willing to initiate such a quarrel over it that it was still apparently unresolved.

  Mina led her out of the withdrawing room, back along the passageway and out of the main hall in the opposite direction. The door to the breakfast room was apparently now unlocked, and Mina pushed it open and stood back.

  Charlotte looked past her into one of the most charming rooms she had ever seen. As Mina had said, it appeared to be full of sunlight, but it was more than that which pleased, it was a sense of space and graciousness, a simplicity which was restful and yet totally welcoming.

  “Oh you are most gifted,” Charlotte said spontaneously. “It’s quite lovely!” She turned to look at Mina, still standing in the doorway, but her face now filled with amazement.

  “Is it?” she said with incredulity, and then a dawning pleasure. “Do you really think so?”

  “Indeed I do,” Charlotte answered her. “I should love to have such a room. If this is of your creation, then you have a kind of genius. I am so glad I met you while my entire house is still undecorated, because if you will give me your permission, I will most assuredly have a yellow room too. May I? Would you consider it a compliment and not an impertinence?”

  Mina was glowing with pleasure like a child given an unexpected gift.

  “I should be most flattered, Mrs. Pitt. Please do not think for a moment that I should mind. It is quite the nicest thing you could say.” She backed out of the doorway in a kind of excitement, and swung around without noticing the maid crossing the hall behind her. Charlotte called out, but it was too late. Mina’s hand caught the teapot. The maid shrieked and let go and the tray went clattering to the floor. The maid shrieked again and threw her apron over her face, and Mina let out a cry.

  Charlotte could see immediately what had happened from the dark stain of wetness over Mina’s wrist, where the scalding tea had run over her.

  “Quickly!” Charlotte grasped her without explanation or apology. “Where is the kitchen?”

  “There.” Mina looked to her left, her face tight with pain.

  The maid was still shrieking, but no one took any notice of her.

  Charlotte half pushed Mina towards the passageway, then thought of a far better idea. There was a large bowl full of lilies on the hall table. She turned and dragged Mina towards it, then as soon as she could reach, seized the flowers and dumped them on the table and pushed Mina’s hand into the bowl full of cold water.

  “Ah!” Mina said in amazement, the pain easing out of her face. “Oh—how wonderful.”

  Charlotte smiled at her, then looked at the maid.

  “Stop it,” she commanded fiercely. “Nobody’s blaming you. It was an accident. Now don’t stand there making that horrible noise, go and do something useful. Go back to the kitchen and send the tweeny to clean up this mess, and you come back with a bag of ice, and a tea cloth wrung out of cold water and a solution of bicarbonate of soda, and another one that’s clean and dry. Get on with you.”

  “Yes, miss. Right away, miss,” the girl said, staring at Charlotte with a tear-stained face and not moving from the spot.

  “Go on, Gwynneth,” Mina urged her. “Do as you are told.”

  Charlotte pulled Mina’s hand out of the flower bowl as the maid disappeared.

  “We’d better go to the light and see how bad it is.” She walked with Mina towards the central chandelier, lit in spite of the sun because of the drawn blinds. Without asking permission she undid the buttons on Mina’s long cuffs and pushed back the black fabric.

  “Oh!” Mina gasped.

  Charlotte also drew in her breath sharply, not because of the red scald she expected to see, but the broad yellow-and-purple stain of bruising with its deeper blotches like finger marks over the flesh. There was also a certain irritated pinkness, from the burn, but nothing like as serious as she had feared, and there was no blistering.

  Mina was absolutely motionless, paralyzed with horror.

  Charlotte looked up and met her gaze.

  Mina’s cheeks burned hot and her eyes filled with a desperate shame, and then overwhelming guilt.

  “Do you need any help?” Charlotte said simply. A dozen questions raced through her mind, none of them she could ask: Gracie’s gossip in the park, Bart Mitchell’s protectiveness and his anger, and the fear in Mina’s eyes.

  “Help! No … no. I … everything is …” She stopped.

  “Are you quite sure?” Charlotte was aching to ask if it had been Captain Winthrop who had done it, and did Bart know—when did he know, before Winthrop’s death, or after?

  “Yes.” Mina swallowed and caught her breath, looking away. “Yes, I am perfectly all right, thank you. It really hurts very little now.”

  Charlotte did not know if she meant the burn or the bruising. She longed to look at the other wrist to see if it was the same, and even more to see under the black lace fichu at her throat, over her shoulders and back. Was that why she walked so stiffly? But there was no way she could do it without being unforgivably intrusive and breaking every tenuous thread of friendship she had built.

  “Do you think you should see a doctor?” she asked with concern.

  Mina’s other hand went to her throat and she shook her head as she met Charlotte’s eyes again. The pretense was back, at least on the surface. “Oh no. I think—I think it will heal quite well, thank you.” She smiled wanly. “Your quick thought saved me so much. I really am most grateful to you.”

  “Had I not been here viewing your beautiful room it would not have happened,” Charlotte replied, allowing the charade. “Do you think you should sit down for a little, and maybe have a tisane? You have had a most unpleasant experience.”

  “Yes—yes that would be an excellent idea,” Mina agreed. “I hope you will stay too? I feel such a poor hostess to have been so clumsy.”

  “I should love to,” Charlotte accepted immediately.

  They were at the withdrawing room entrance when the front door opened and Bart Mitchell came in. He glanced, first at Mina, seeing her wrist with the black cuff open and trailing, then at Charlotte, his face suddenly tight with anxiety. Curiously, he said nothing.

  “Mrs. Pitt came to visit me, Bart,” Mina said in the sudden silence. “Wasn’t that considerate of her?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” Bait’s blue eyes were very wide and direct, searching Charlotte’s face. Then he looked back at Mina.

  “I scalded myself,” Mina said very slowly, as if she owed him some explanation. “Mrs. Pitt was very helpful, very quick …”

  At that moment, as if in further support, Gwynneth r
eappeared with the towels. She looked over to Charlotte.

  Mina held out her arm, which was beginning to look pink again where the bruise did not mar it.

  “Here, allow me to help.” Bart dropped his stick and hat on the settee and came forward, grasping the wet towel and holding it onto the burn while Charlotte wound dry cloth around it. His hands were sunburned brown, slender and strong, but he touched his sister’s arm as if it were fragile enough to break at the merest pressure.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said finally when it had been secured. “I think perhaps in view of the unpleasantness of the incident, Mrs. Winthrop should lie down for a while. She is not strong …”

  “This is nothing,” Mina began, then stopped again, her face filled with fear. She glanced at Bart, then at Charlotte. “I have not even given Mrs. Pitt any tea,” she said helplessly, grasping at the trifling problem of etiquette when so obviously something of overwhelming magnitude filled her mind. “It was the tea I spilled.”

  “I will give Mrs. Pitt tea, my dear,” Bart answered, staring at her with a penetrating gaze. “You go and lie down for a while. You will be far better able to keep that bandage upon your arm if you rest it on a pillow. If you insist upon sitting up for afternoon tea in the withdrawing room you are bound to loosen it.”

  “I—I suppose you are right,” she agreed reluctantly, but still she did not leave. She looked at Bart, and then at Charlotte, anxiety deep in her face.

  “Should you call a doctor?” Charlotte asked.

  “No—no.” Bart shook his head with complete decision. “I am sure that will not be necessary. You appear to have done extremely well.” He flashed a smile, beautiful and sudden as April sun. “Now if Mina will lie down for a while, I shall be most happy to give you tea, Mrs. Pitt. Please come into the withdrawing room.”

  There was no civil alternative but to do as she was invited, while Mina, equally obediently, went upstairs.