The Hyde Park Headsman

by Anne Perry

  “If I find anything that leads to unraveling the mystery, I shall certainly tell you,” he promised, and before she could decide whether that was the answer she sought, he allowed the maid to show him out.

  He began with the names she had given him. Roderick Alberd proved to be an eccentric with flying hair and whiskers in the manner of the late Franz Liszt, and his study in which he received Pitt was dominated by a grand piano. Alberd wore a wine velvet jacket and a large, very floppy cravat. His voice when he spoke was rasping and unexpectedly high.

  “Oh, grieved, Superintendent,” he said with an expansive gesture. “In fact desolated. What a perfectly senseless way to die.” He swiveled around to stare at Pitt with surprisingly intelligent blue eyes. “That is the sort of thing that should happen to rakes and bullies, unsophisticated men of violence without taste or culture, not to a man like Aidan Arledge. There was nothing uncouth or predatory in his nature. It is an affront to civilization itself. What have you done about it?” His look narrowed. “Why are you here?”

  “I am trying to learn where he went and whom he saw in the last few days—” Pitt began, but was interrupted.

  Alberd threw up his hands. “Good heavens, what for? Do you suppose this madman knew him personally?”

  “I think their paths may have crossed,” Pitt acceded. “I do not think he was chosen entirely at random. Can you help me? Your name was given me by his widow.”

  “Ah yes, poor soul. Well—” Alberd sat down on the piano stool and flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles. His hands were extraordinarily wide with long, spatulate fingers. Pitt found himself fascinated watching them. Had anyone been strangled, those hands with their power would have haunted his dreams.

  Pitt waited.

  “He was killed on a Tuesday, as I recall. Found Wednesday morning, yes?” Alberd began, then apparently not requiring an answer, he continued. “Well on the Monday I saw him. Middle of the afternoon. We discussed a recital next month. I shall have to find someone else to conduct now. I confess, I had not even thought of that.” He cracked his knuckles again. “When he left me he said he was going to visit a friend, I forget whom. It was of no concern to me, not anyone I knew—not a musical person, I believe.”

  “If you could remember …”

  “Good heavens, Superintendent, surely you don’t imagine …? No, I assure you, it was a friend of long standing. I believe a close friend.” He looked at Pitt with amusement.

  “What else can you tell me about his work, who else may know his movements that week, Mr. Alberd?”

  “Oh, let me see …” He thought for several moments, staring at the floor, then finally gave Pitt a list of his own engagements for the time, and all those occasions in which his path had crossed that of Aidan Arledge, or in many instances, places or functions he knew Arledge would have attended. When he had finished it was a surprisingly complete picture.

  “Thank you.” Pitt excused himself and took his leave with considerable hope.

  He also visited Lady Lismore, and from her suggestion several others. Three days later he had learned where Aidan Arledge had been most of the last week of his life, and several places he visited regularly. Certain names occurred again and again. He determined to question them all.

  In between he returned to Bow Street, often late in the evening, to learn what Tellman had found.

  “Don’t know where Arledge was killed,” he admitted sourly, looking at Pitt with irritation. “I’ve had men searching the length and breadth of the park, and every man on the beat for a mile in every direction has been told to keep his eyes open. Nothing!”

  “What about Yeats, the bus conductor?” Pitt looked up at him without expectation.

  “Don’t know where he was killed either.” Tellman sat sideways in the chair. “But there are one or two likely places in Shepherd’s Bush. At least we know where the gig came from. A man called Arburthnot reported it stolen from outside his house in Silgrave Road.”

  “I presume you looked in that immediate area for a murder site?” Pitt asked.

  Tellman withered him with a glance. “Of course we did. One of the most likely was in the railway siding just off Silgrave Road. Ground is so soaked with oil and covered with cinders and the like, it’s hard to tell if there’s been blood there or not.”

  “Anyone see Yeats after he left the bus?”

  Tellman shook his head.

  “No one that’ll say so. Driver saw him off, said good-night, and said Yeats started along Silgrave Road. He lives in Osman Gardens, about four or five streets away.”

  “Did anyone else get off the bus at the same time?”

  “Half a dozen people.” Tellman pulled a face. “Says he can’t remember any of them because he had his back to them throughout the journey, and at the end all he could think of was getting home and putting his feet in a bowl of Epsom salts.”

  “What about regular passengers?” Pitt asked. “They will have noticed if there was anyone unusual. What do they say?”

  “Could only find one regular,” Tellman said grimly. “It’s not the sort of time for anyone who works, or goes to any place of trade or entertainment. It’s later than the theaters. Anyway, who goes to the city theaters from Shepherd’s Bush on a bus?”

  Pitt was losing patience. “What did your one regular say? Have you learned anything at all, man?”

  “As far as he could remember, there were six or seven people on the bus by the time it got to Shepherd’s Bush. At least four of them were men, one young, three older, and as far as he could tell, biggish. He couldn’t recall any of them. He was tired and had a toothache.” Tellman’s chin came up and his long face was tight. “And what have you learned … sir? Anything that would be of help to us?”

  “I think Arledge kept a mistress, and I expect to find her within the next day or two,” Pitt replied, rather rashly.

  “Ah …” It was hard to know from Tellman’s wince if he were interested or not. “Could explain Arledge’s death, if the lady was married, but why Winthrop? Or was he her lover as well?”

  “I won’t know that until I have found her,” Pitt answered, standing up and walking over towards the window. “And before you ask, I don’t know what Yeats has to do with it either, unless in some way he knew something and was a blackmailer.” Below him in the street a hansom had stopped and a large man was alighting with difficulty. An urchin with a broom did not bother to hide his amusement.

  Tellman raised his eyebrows. “The lady lived in Shepherd’s Bush?” he asked sarcastically.

  “But a madman who kills without any pattern at all doesn’t make sense either,” Pitt replied.

  “It has something to do with the park,” Tellman said decisively. “Or why bring Yeats all the way back in a gig? Much safer simply to leave him in Shepherd’s Bush. Why put him in the gig at all, for that matter?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want him left where he was,” Pitt suggested, leaving the window and sitting on the edge of the desk. “Maybe he brought him back to Hyde Park because that’s where our murderer lives.”

  Tellman opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. “Maybe. Arledge’s mistress and her husband, I suppose? Perhaps she’s a very loose principled woman, and she was Winthrop’s mistress too? But surely not the fat little conductor’s?” His lantern face broke into a hard smile. “I’ll be entertained to meet this woman.”

  Pitt stood up. “Then I had better get on and find her. You find out where Yeats and Arledge were killed.”

  “Yes sir.” And still smiling to himself, Tellman stood up and went to the door.

  But it was another two long days of painstaking work with petty details of discussions, meetings and partings, half-heard conversations and glimpses of people, before Pitt had traced a dozen or so of Arledge’s acquaintances and begun to eliminate them from any suspicion. He was losing heart. They were all very properly accounted for, and their relationships were above reproach.

  Tired, sore footed and discourag
ed, Pitt presented himself at the door of a much respected businessman who had contributed funds to the small orchestra which Aidan Arledge had frequently conducted. Perhaps Mr. Jerome Carvell had a beautiful wife?

  The door was opened by a tall butler with a long, curved nose and a supercilious mouth.

  “Good evening, sir.” He looked Pitt up and down questioningly. Apparently he was uncertain of what he saw. The weariness and confidence in Pitt’s expression belied the rather sloppy abandon of his clothes and the dust covering his boots.

  “Good evening,” Pitt replied, fishing for his card and giving it to him. “I apologize for calling so late, and unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent. May I perhaps speak with Mr. or Mrs. Carvell?”

  “I will ask Mr. Carvell if he will see you, sir,” the butler replied.

  “I should like to speak to Mrs. Carvell also,” Pitt insisted.

  “Impossible, sir.”

  “It is important.”

  The butler’s eyebrows rose higher. “There is no Mrs. Carvell, sir.”

  “Oh.” Pitt felt unreasonably disappointed. Even if Mr. Carvell were as good a friend to Arledge as he had been led to suppose, and knew of his personal life, he would not now betray it to the police.

  “Did you wish to see Mr. Carvell, sir?” The butler looked a trifle impatient.

  “Yes please,” Pitt replied, more out of irritation than hope.

  “Then if you will come this way, sir, I will inquire if that is possible.” Turning on his heel, the butler led the way to a small, very gracious study, wood paneled and lined with shelves of leather-bound books which looked unusually well read, arranged in order of subject, not of appearance.

  Pitt was left for barely five minutes, during which time he looked at the titles and noted such areas of interest as exploration, classical drama, entomology, medieval architecture and the raising of roses. Then the door opened and he saw a man of perhaps forty-five. His fairish hair was beginning to turn gray at the temples and his face was of marked individuality and extraordinary intelligence. No one would have called him handsome—his skin was marked by some past disease, perhaps smallpox, and his teeth were far from straight—and yet he had such humor and perception that Pitt found himself regarding him with immediate liking.

  “Mr. Carvell?”

  “Yes?” Carvell came in looking anxious. “Superintendent Pitt? Have I done something amiss? I was not aware of anything …”

  “I doubt there is anything, sir,” Pitt replied honestly. “I am calling only in case you may have some knowledge which could help …”

  “Oh dear. With what?” Carvell came farther in and waved absently for Pitt to sit down. He perched on one of the other easy chairs. “I don’t think I know anything remotely useful to the police. I am a man of business. I know of no crimes. Has someone embezzled money?”

  He looked so transparently innocent Pitt almost abandoned the quest altogether. It was only the necessity of explaining his presence at all that made him continue.

  “Not so far as I am aware, Mr. Carvell. It is in connection with the death of Mr. Aidan Arledge. I believe—” He stopped. Carvell’s face had gone completely white and he looked so profoundly distressed Pitt was afraid for him. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Pitt had been about to say “I believe you knew him”; but such a remark now would have been absurd. “Can I fetch you a glass of water?” he offered, rising to his feet. “Or brandy?” He looked around for a decanter or a tantalus.

  “No—no—I apologize,” Carvell stammered. “I—I—” He came to a halt, not knowing what to say. There was no reasonable explanation. He blinked several times.

  At last Pitt saw the decanter. It looked like Madeira in it, but it would be better than nothing. He could see no glasses, so he simply picked up the whole thing and held it to Carvell’s lips.

  “Really—I …” Carvell stuttered, then took a long gulp and sat back, breathing hard. His face regained some color and Pitt put the decanter down on the table next to him and went back to his own seat. “Thank you,” Carvell said wretchedly. “I really do apologize. I—I cannot think what came over me….” But the grief in his face made it tragically obvious what had so robbed him of composure.

  “No apology is necessary,” Pitt said with a strange, dull ache of pity inside him. “It is I who should seek pardon. I was extremely clumsy in broaching the subject so very bluntly. I take it you were extremely fond of Mr. Arledge?”

  “Yes—yes, we have been friends for a great number of years. In fact since youth. It is such a—a terrible way to die….” His voice was husky with the crowding emotions he felt.

  “It is,” Pitt agreed. “But I think you can be assured that he knew nothing of it One quick blow, and he would have lost sensibility. It is only terrible for those of us who now know the full details.”

  “You are very considerate. I wish—” Carvell stopped abruptly. “I have no idea what I can tell you, Superintendent.” He looked at Pitt earnestly. “I know nothing about it at all. And I have naturally searched my brains to see if there is anything I could have done to prevent it, to foresee such—such an abominable thing, but I cannot. It was a bolt from nowhere! There was no”—he pulled his lips back in a ghastly caricature of a smite—“ ‘cloud bigger than a man’s hand’ on the horizon. One day everything was as usual, all the pleasures one takes for granted, the sun, the earth brimming with returning life, young people everywhere full of hopes and ambitions, old men full of memories, good food, good wine, good companionship, fine books and exquisite music.” He sighed. “The world in its ordered course. Then suddenly …” His eyes filled with tears and he turned away, ashamed, blinking to cover his embarrassment.

  Pitt felt acutely for him.

  “We are all very shaken by it,” he said quietly. “And very afraid. That is why I am obliged to intrude upon people in this fashion. Any help you can give, anything at all, may assist us to catch whoever is doing this. Did you know Captain Winthrop? Did Mr. Arledge ever speak of him to you?” He was evading the real issue, and he knew it, but he wanted to give Carvell time to regain his composure. Even while he was doing it, he knew it was tactically a mistake. Tellman would not have hesitated.

  “Captain Winthrop?” Carvell looked totally confused. “Oh, yes, the first man who was … murdered. No. No, I cannot say I had heard of him before that Oh—just a moment. Yes, I had heard his name mentioned, by a Mr. Bartholomew Mitchell, with whom I have had slight dealings. About a matter of business. I believe it was Mrs. Winthrop’s name, in fact. Mrs. Winthrop is his sister, I think.”

  “May I ask what business, sir?”

  “He purchased some shares on her behalf. I cannot think it could possibly have any connection.”

  “No, I cannot think of any either. When was the last time you saw Mr. Arledge?”

  Again his face paled. “The evening of the day before he died, Superintendent. We had supper together after a performance. It was late and he knew his own household would have retired …”

  “I see.” Pitt pulled the set of keys out of his pocket and held them up. He was about to ask if Carvell knew what they were when the expression in his face made the question unnecessary.

  “Where—” he began, then fell silent, staring helplessly at Pitt.

  “Do they fit doors in this house, Mr. Carvell?” Pitt asked.

  Carvell gulped. “Yes,” he said huskily.

  Pitt took the largest. “The front door?”

  “The back,” Carvell corrected. “It—it seems …”

  “Of course. And these?” He held up the other two.

  Carvell said nothing.

  “Please, sir. It would be most undignified to have to obtain a warrant and search through all the doors and cupboards and drawers in the house.”

  Carvell paled even more and he looked desperately unhappy.

  “Do you—do you have to … go through his—his things?” he stammered.

  “What did he keep here?” Pitt
asked with wrenching distaste. It was grossly intrusive, and yet he dared not avoid it.

  “Personal toiletries.” Carvell spoke jerkingly, as if he had to wrench each item from his memory. “A little clean linen, evening dress, some cuff links and collar studs. Nothing that can possibly be of use to you, Superintendent.”

  “A silver-backed hairbrush?”

  “Yes—I think so.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I loved him, Superintendent. I have no idea whether you can understand what that means. All my adult life I …” He bent his head and covered his face with his hands. “What’s the use? I thought it would be a relief if I could share it with someone. At least be able to admit to being bereaved.” His voice choked with pain. “I had to keep it secret, pretend I was merely a friend, that he meant no more to me than that. Have you any idea what it is like to lose the person you love most in the world, and have to behave as if it were a mere acquaintance? Have you?” He looked up suddenly, his face stained with tears, his emotion naked.

  “No,” Pitt said honestly. “It would be impertinent of me to say I know how you must hurt. But I can imagine it must be unbearably deep. I offer you my condolences, which I know are worth nothing.”

  “Not nothing, Superintendent. It is something to have at least one person understand you.”

  “Did Mrs. Arledge know of your—your regard?”

  Carvell looked appalled.

  “Dear Heaven, no!”

  “You are sure?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Aidan was sure. I have never actually met her except for a few moments at a concert, quite by accident. I did not wish … Can you understand?”

  “I see.” Pitt could only guess at the emotions of jealousy, guilt and fear which might have stormed through his mind.

  “Do you?” Carvell said with only a thread of bitterness.

  He looked utterly wretched. Pitt was acutely aware of his isolation. There was no one to comfort him in his grief, no one even to be aware of it.

  Carvell looked up. “Who did this terrible thing, Superintendent? Is there really some demented soul loose in London with a lust for—for blood? Why should he have killed Aidan? He harmed no one….”