by Anne Perry
“Actually, sir, I meant did you recognize the lady and gentleman who were the victims of the attack?”
“No sir, I did not. It was all extremely hasty and in the dark. And I confess, normally I wear spectacles. I did not have them on this occasion, of course. The gentleman appeared to be quite young. He certainly moved in the most agile manner. And robust, yes definitely robust I cannot say more than that.” He took a deep breath and regarded Pitt very soberly. “As for the lady, it was certain she had spirit, and very fine lungs, but I really did not notice beyond that, even if she were fair or dark, comely or plain. I am sorry, sir, it seems I can be of no use whatever. I begin to appreciate your difficulty.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Milburn,” Pitt replied. “You are of the utmost help possible. In fact I think you may have solved the entire problem for me. Thank you, sir, good day to you.” And he excused himself and left Mr. Milburn standing open-mouthed, searching in vain for something appropriate to say.
But at Bow Street the reception was entirely different. Giles Farnsworth was in Pitt’s office, pacing the floor. He swung around as soon as he heard Pitt’s hand on the door and he was facing Pitt as he entered, a newspaper in his hand.
“I assume you have read this?” he said furiously. “How do you explain it? What are you doing about it?” He waved the paper in the air. “Now a prospective member of Parliament has been attacked in the heart of Mayfair! Do you know anything about this Headsman at all, Pitt? Any single damn thing!”
“I know this wasn’t the Headsman,” Pitt replied in a calm, precise voice.
“Not the Headsman?” Farnsworth said incredulously. “Are you telling me we have two homicidal lunatics running around London swinging axes at people?”
“No, we have one madman and one opportunist taking advantage of the situation.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Farnsworth demanded. “What sort of advantage would a sane man possibly take of this nightmare?”
“Political,” Pitt replied succinctly.
“Political?” Farnsworth’s eyes opened and he stood perfectly still. “Are you saying what I think you are, Pitt? My God, if you make this accusation, you’d better be right. And you’d better be able to prove it.”
“I can’t prove it sufficiently to charge him,” Pitt replied, walking into the room and across to his desk. “But I am satisfied it was he who attacked Mr. and Mrs. Radley last night.”
Farnsworth stared at him, the newspaper forgotten. “Are you? Your word, Pitt?”
“My word,” Pitt replied slowly.
“How do you know? He didn’t admit it?”
“No, of course not; but it was he who wrote it up in the newspapers. He told me that he heard of it from a constable on duty, but there was no such constable, nor did he learn it from the man who came to Mr. Radley’s rescue, because he was unaware of Radley’s identity.”
“Indeed,” Farnsworth said thoughtfully. “The man’s a complete fool.” The contempt in his voice was stinging. Then he dismissed the matter and looked back at Pitt with a return of his anxiety. “What about the real Headsman? The whole city is under a pall of terror. There have been questions in the House of Commons, the Home Secretary has been severely embarrassed at the dispatch box. Her Majesty has expressed her concern. She is distressed, and has made it known.” Suddenly his voice rose, harsh and furious, the fear rushing back in like a tide. “For God’s sake, Pitt, what’s the matter with you, man? There must be something you can do to find enough evidence to arrest him!”
“Are you talking about Carvell again, sir?” Pitt asked carefully.
“Of course I’m talking about Carvell,” Farnsworth snapped. “The man had the motive, the means and the opportunity. You’ve got the ideal leverage to pressure him into a confession. Use it!”
“I don’t have anything—” Pitt began, but Farnsworth interrupted him impatiently.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He slashed his hand through the air. “Tellman’s right, you’re too squeamish. This is not the time or the place to indulge your personal conscience, Pitt.” He leaned forward across the corner of the desk, resting his hands on it, staring at Pitt eye to eye. “You have obligations, duties to your superiors and to the force. You’ve got to be above such things. They’re for juniors, if you like, not for the men in charge. Face your responsibilities, Pitt—or resign!”
“I cannot arrest Carvell,” Pitt said very quietly. “And I refuse to persecute the man over what I believe his private life to be.”
“Dammit, Pitt!” Farnsworth smashed his fist down on the desk. “The man was having an illicit love affair with the victim of a murder. He can’t account for where he was either then or when Winthrop was killed. Arledge may have known Winthrop—”
“How do you know that?” Pitt interrupted.
Farnsworth looked at him incredulously. “He knew Mrs. Winthrop. It’s not a large leap from that to suppose he knew Winthrop himself. And if Carvell was a jealous man, then the conclusion is obvious.”
“Tellman told you?”
“Of course Tellman told me! What’s the matter with you? What are you hesitating for?”
“It could as easily have been Bartholomew Mitchell.” Now Farnsworth was confused.
“Mitchell? Winthrop’s brother-in-law? Why, for Heaven’s sake? What had he to do with Arledge?”
“Winthrop beat his wife,” Pitt replied. “Mitchell knew it. Arledge was seen with Mrs. Winthrop when she was extremely distressed over something.”
“And the omnibus conductor?” Farnsworth pursued, ignoring the issue of Winthrop and the beating. “What about him? Don’t tell me he had anything to do with this domestic melodrama?”
“No idea. But then we have no idea what he has to do with Carvell either,” Pitt argued.
Farnsworth bit his lip. “Blackmail,” he said acidly. “It’s the only answer. Somehow or other he was in the park and saw one of the murders. I still think it’s Carvell. Go after him, Pitt. Press him into telling you the truth. You’ll get a confession, if he’s guilty.”
There was a knock on the door before Pitt could reply, and without waiting for an answer, it opened and Tellman came in.
“Oh,” he said with some surprise, as if he had not known Farnsworth was there. “Excuse me, sir.” He looked at Pitt. “I thought you’d like to know, Mr. Pitt. The men have been following up Mr. Carvell’s whereabouts at the times of the murders.”
“Yes?” Pitt said sharply, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Farnsworth stared at Tellman, his eyes wide.
“Haven’t found anyone to substantiate it,” Tellman replied. “Not for Captain Winthrop or Mr. Arledge. I don’t know what else we can try.”
“That’s sufficient,” Farnsworth said decisively. “Arrest him for the murder of Arledge. The other two don’t matter for the charge. Once you’ve got him in custody, he’ll break.”
Pitt drew breath to argue, but Tellman cut across him.
“We don’t know about Yeats yet, sir,” he said quickly, looking at Farnsworth. “He might have been somewhere he can prove when that happened.”
“Well what does he say?” Farnsworth demanded irritably.
“That he was at a concert, and we’re still looking into it,” Tellman replied, his eyes very wide open, his expression innocent. “We’d look stupid if we arrested him, then found someone who said that they’d seen him at the theater half a dozen miles away at, say, midnight.”
“What time was Yeats killed?”
“Probably between midnight and half past,” Pitt replied.
“Probably?” Farnsworth said sharply. “How accurate can the medical examiner be? Maybe it was later. Maybe it was a couple of hours later. That would give Carvell plenty of time to have taken a hansom to Shepherd’s Bush.” He looked from Tellman to Pitt, his face triumphant.
Tellman looked at him very deliberately.
“Wouldn’t matter, sir. Yeats would hardly have been hanging around the Shepher
d’s Bush bus terminal a couple of hours after he came in. He’d set off home, the driver said that. And since it’s only fifteen minutes or so at a good walk, that narrows down the time of his death rather fine.”
Farnsworth’s lips tightened. “Then you’d better get on with finding out who else was at that concert,” he said. “If the man was there, someone must have seen him! He’s a well-known figure. He didn’t sit in a room alone. For God’s sake, man, you’re a detective. There must be a way of proving if he was there or not. What about the interval? Did he take refreshment? He must have spoken to someone. Concerts are social occasions as well as musical.”
“He says he didn’t,” Tellman answered. “It was shortly after Arledge’s death, and he wasn’t feeling like speaking to anyone. He simply went for the music, because it carried memories for him. He went in without speaking to anyone, and came out the same way.”
“Then arrest him,” Farnsworth repeated. “He’s our man.”
“What if it turns out to be Mr. Mitchell, sir?” Tellman said ingenuously. “Seems he could have had cause as well, and he can’t prove where he was either, except for Mrs. Winthrop’s word, and that doesn’t count for much.”
Farnsworth turned towards the door.
“Well you’d better do something, and quickly.” He ignored Tellman and faced Pitt. “Or you will have to be replaced by someone who will be more effective. The public have the right to expect something better than this. The Home Secretary is taking a personal interest in the case, and even Her Majesty is concerned. The end of the week, Pitt—no more.”
As soon as he was gone Pitt looked at Tellman curiously.
Tellman affected a certain indifference.
“They would,” he said casually. “Pity they can’t think of some useful suggestions. Damned if I know what else to do. We’ve got two men trying to find out everything they can about the damned bus conductor. He’s so ordinary he could be changed with ten thousand other ordinary little men and no one would know the difference with any of them. Pompous, bossy, lived with his wife and two dogs, fancied pigeons, drank ale at the Fox and Grapes on a Friday night, played dominoes badly, but was rather good at the odd game of darts. Why would anybody murder a man like that?”
“Because he saw something he shouldn’t have,” Pitt answered simply.
“But he was on his bus when Winthrop and Arledge were killed,” Tellman answered in exasperation. “And it didn’t run anywhere near the park. And even if Arledge was killed somewhere else, we know exactly where Winthrop was killed.”
“Then put someone further onto searching for the place where Arledge was killed,” Pitt said without hope. “Search all the area ’round Carvell’s house. See if you can find an excuse to call on Mitchell, and search that house again too.”
“Yes sir. What are you going to do?” For once it was asked without insolence.
“I am going to attend the Requiem service for Aidan Arledge.”
There was never any question that Charlotte would accompany Pitt, first to the Requiem service itself, and then to the reception afterwards. The new house was very nearly completed and there were a score more minor things to be seen to: curtains to be hung, loose floorboards to be screwed down, a water tap replaced, tiles to be affixed in the kitchen and more in the pantry, and so on. However, they all paled to insignificance compared with the opportunity to meet probably all the main protagonists in the tragedies Pitt was investigating.
Deliberately they arrived early, discreetly dressed like the other mourners. Indeed Pitt had spent three times as long in front of the cheval glass as usual. It was still only a matter of minutes, but he had also allowed Charlotte to readjust his collar, his cravat and his jacket until they were to her satisfaction. Charlotte herself was dressed in the same black gown she had worn for the funeral reception for Captain Winthrop, but with a quite different hat, this time high crowned and smaller brimmed, and absolutely up to the moment, if not a trifle ahead of it. It was a gift from Great-Aunt Vespasia.
They had only just alighted from their hansom, around the corner so as not to be seen without a personal carriage, when they met Jack and Emily, also arrived early. Jack was as casually elegant as usual, even though he still walked a trifle stiffly. Charlotte knew all about the incident from the newspapers, from Pitt, and from Emily herself, upon whom she had quite naturally called very shortly after reading of it.
Emily was ravishing in black silk overlaid with lace and cut with wide sleeves and pleated shoulders. However, there was a flicker of appreciation when she saw Charlotte’s hat, and something like surprise in her face.
“I’m so glad you are here,” she said immediately, moving over to stand beside Charlotte, and saying nothing about the hat. “I feel terribly guilty. We haven’t accomplished a thing to help Thomas, and if I am honest, we haven’t really tried. What the newspapers are saying is quite unjust, but then justice never had anything to do with it. Do you know who is who?” She indicated the gathering around to explain the meaning of her last remark.
“Of course I don’t,” Charlotte replied under her breath. “Except that looks like Mina Winthrop. And that’s her brother, Bart Mitchell. Thomas.” She looked around to find Pitt. “Why are they here? Is it just sympathy, do you suppose? She looks very sad.”
“She knew him,” Pitt replied, moving close to them again and acknowledging Emily.
“She knew him?” Charlotte was aghast. “You didn’t tell me!”
“I only just learned of it….”
“How well? How did she know him?” she plunged on. “Could it have been …? Oh, no, of course it couldn’t—”
“Oh look at that poor soul,” Emily interrupted as Jerome Carvell passed within a few yards of them. “The poor man looks appalling.” And indeed he did; his face was sickly pale, his eyes red-rimmed as if he had been up half the night straining them to see something which, when he had finally perceived it, had shaken him to the core. He walked wearily and threaded his way between people without meeting anyone’s eyes. He spoke only to acknowledge people’s sympathies.
“He looks deeply troubled,” Charlotte said softly. “Poor man. I wonder if he knows something, or if it is merely grief?”
“It could be both,” Emily answered, looking not at Carvell’s back as he disappeared but at Mina Winthrop. Mina was wearing black for her own mourning, of course, as well as this occasion, but now with trimmings of garnet and pearl jewelry, and no veil over her face. Her skin was clear, and flushed with faint color, and she looked around her with interest. Her brother stood close beside her, and it crossed Charlotte’s mind that he wished to be aware if she moved from him, as one does in the company of a small child who might be in danger if unsupervised, or might even wander off and get lost. She had stood close to her own children like that, talking to someone, and yet half her mind attuned to their presence.
She turned to Pitt “Thomas …”
“Yes?”
“Is Bart Mitchell a suspect?”
“Why?”
“Because Captain Winthrop beat her, of course. I mean, what about Aidan Arledge? Could he also have done something to hurt Mina?”
“I don’t know. She was very distressed on the occasion they were seen together. It is possible.”
“What about the bus conductor?”
“No idea. There seems to be no reason for him, whoever it was.”
“He saw something,” Emily said reasonably. “From his omnibus.”
“It didn’t run anywhere near Hyde Park.”
“Oh.”
More people were arriving, among them a man of most distinguished appearance. He was in his middle years, with a handsome head, thick hair, graying at the temples, and a fine mustache. He was dressed immaculately in the latest cut of suit and silk shirt. He walked with shoulders back and a casual confidence which drew many people’s eyes towards him. Apparently he was accustomed to such attention, because it did not seem to cause him any concern, in fact he seemed hard
ly to be aware of it.
“Who is he?” Charlotte asked curiously. “Is he a cabinet minister, or something of that sort?”
“I don’t recognize him.” Pitt shook his head. Emily stifled a giggle with her black-gloved hand over her mouth.
“Don’t be absurd. It’s Sullivan.”
“Who is Sullivan?” Charlotte asked tartly.
“Sir Arthur Sullivan!” Emily hissed. “Gilbert and Sullivan!”
“Oh! Oh, I see. Yes of course. Mr. Arledge was a composer and conductor, wasn’t he? I wonder if Mr. Gilbert will come.”
“Oh no,” Emily replied quickly. “Not if he knows Sir Arthur is here. They’ve quarreled, you know.”
“Have they?” Charlotte was surprised and disappointed. “I didn’t know that. How on earth do they write such gorgeous operas together, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t do it anymore.”
Charlotte felt unreasonably disappointed. She could still remember the color and excitement, the gaiety and irrepressible melody, of the few evenings she had spent at the Savoy Opera. Now just as Pitt was promoted and they might begin to afford such things more often, there were to be no more.
Her disappointment was interrupted by a second wave of interest from the rapidly expanding group by the church door. People moved aside, nudged each other and, without intending to, turned to stare.
“That’s him!” Emily said with unconcealed delight.
“Who? Gilbert?” Charlotte whispered back.
“Yes, of course. W. S. Gilbert,” Emily said urgently.
“Did they really quarrel?” Charlotte watched as Mr. Gilbert moved inexorably closer to where Sir Arthur Sullivan was standing at the top of the steps by the church door, apparently oblivious of new arrivals. “What about?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I heard.” Emily took Charlotte’s arm and propelled her closer to the church steps. “I am sure it is time we went in. It would be most inconsiderate to keep people waiting, don’t you think? And ridiculous, after having come here early, to enter the church late.”
