by Anne Perry
“Victor, I am so sorry to interrupt,” Mina began. “But Superintendent Pitt has actually come to see you. It seems there are some further details yet to clear up in this wretched business, and he thinks you may be able to help.”
“Perhaps we should excuse ourselves.” Bart moved as if to leave.
“Oh no,” Pitt said hastily. “Please, Mr. Mitchell, I should be glad if you would both remain. It would save me having to ask you all separately.” An idea was beginning to form in his mind, although still hazy and lacking many essential elements. “I am sorry to disturb your music on such a distressing matter, but I think we are really close to the end at last.”
Bart moved back to the mantel shelf and resumed his position leaning against it, his expression cold. “If you wish, Superintendent, but I don’t think any of us knows anything we have not already told you.”
“It is a matter of what you may have seen.” Pitt turned to Victor, who was watching him with his clear, very blue eyes wide and apparently more polite than interested.
“Yes?” he said, since the silence seemed to call for some remark.
“At the reception after the Requiem service for Aidan Arledge,” Pitt began, “I believe you were sitting in the corner alcove near the doorway to the hall?”
“Yes. I didn’t especially wish to wander around talking to people,” Victor agreed. “And anyway, it is far more important to stay with my cello. Someone might accidentally bump it, or even knock it over.” Unconsciously his arms tightened around the precious instrument, caressing its exquisite wood, which was smooth as satin and as bright. Pitt noticed the bruise and felt a stab of fury at the vandalism.
“Is that how that happened?” he asked.
Victor’s face tightened and his skin went suddenly white. His eyes were hard and very bright, staring fixedly at some spot in the far distance, or perhaps within his own memory.
“No,” he said between his teeth.
“What was it?” Pitt pressed, and found himself holding his own breath. He did not realize that the pain in the palms of his hands was his nails digging into the flesh.
“Some vile creature pushed me, and it knocked against the handrail,” Victor answered in a soft voice, his gaze still far away.
“The handrail?” Pitt questioned.
“Yes.”
Bart Mitchell shifted his position away from the mantel and opened his mouth to interrupt, then changed his mind.
“Of an omnibus?” Pitt said, almost in a whisper.
“What?” Victor looked around at him. “Oh—yes. People like that have … nothing inside them—no feeling—no souls!”
“It’s a senseless piece of vandalism,” Pitt agreed, swallowing hard and stepping back a little. “What I wanted to ask you, Mr. Garrick, was if you saw the butler, Scarborough, when he was directing the other servants that afternoon?”
“Who?”
“The butler, Scarborough.”
Victor still looked blank.
“A big man with a haughty face and arrogant manner.”
Victor’s eyes filled with comprehension and memory. “Oh yes. He was a bully, a contemptible man.” He winced at Pitt as he said it. “It is beyond forgiveness to use one’s power to abuse those who are in no position to defend themselves. I abhor it, and the people who do such things are …” He sighed. “I have no words for it. I search my mind and nothing comes which carries the weight of the anger I feel.”
“Did he actually dismiss the girl for singing?” Pitt asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
Victor raised his eyes and stared at him.
Pitt waited.
“Yes,” Victor said at length. “She was singing a little love song, quite softly, just a sad little thing about losing someone. He dismissed her without even listening to her explanation or apology.” His face was even whiter as he spoke and his lips were bloodless. “She cannot have been more than sixteen.” His whole body was tight, and he sat hunched, only his hands still gentle on the cello.
“Mrs. Radley heard it too,” Pitt said, not as any part of his plan, but spontaneously, from pity. “She offered the girl a position. She won’t be out on the street.”
Slowly Victor turned to gaze at him, his eyes softened, very bright blue, and the anger drained out of him.
“Did she?”
“Yes. She is my sister-in-law, and I know it is true.”
“And the man is dead,” Victor added. “So that’s all right.”
“Was that all you wanted to ask?” Bart said, stepping forward. “I saw nothing, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did my sister.”
“Oh, almost,” Pitt replied, looking not at him but at Mina. “The other matter was concerning Mr. Arledge.” He altered the tone of his voice to be deliberately harsher. “You told me before, Mrs. Winthrop, that your acquaintance with him was very slight, only a matter of a single kindness on one occasion when you were distressed over the death of a pet.”
She swallowed and hesitated. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I do not believe you.”
“We have told you what happened, Superintendent,” Bart said grimly. “Whether you accept it or not, I am afraid that is all there is. You have the Headsman. There is no purpose whatever in your persisting in a matter which is peripheral at best.”
Pitt ignored him.
“I think you knew him considerably better than that,” he said to Mina. “And I do not believe the matter that distressed you was the death of a pet.”
She looked pale, and distinctly uncomfortable.
“My brother has already told you what happened, Superintendent. I have nothing to add to that.”
“I know Mr. Mitchell told me, ma’am. What I wonder is why you did not tell me yourself! Is it that you are not quite so quick with a lie? Or perhaps you did not think of one in time?”
“Sir, you are being gratuitously offensive.” Bart moved closer to Pitt, as if he would offer him physical violence. His voice was low and dangerous. “I must ask you to leave this house. You are no longer welcome here.”
“Whether I am welcome or not is a matter of complete indifference,” Pitt answered, still facing, not Bart, but Mina. “Mrs. Winthrop, if I were to ask your servants, would they bear out your story of a domestic pet’s death?”
Mina looked very white and her hands were shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her lips were dry.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” he said grimly, hating the necessity for this. “We know that your husband beat you—”
Her head jerked up, her face white with horror. “Oh no, no!” she said involuntarily. “It was … accidental … he … it was my own fault. If I were less clumsy, less stupid … I provoked him by …” She trailed off, staring at Bart.
Victor looked at Mina, his eyes wide and hard, waiting.
“It is not your fault!” Bart said between his teeth. “I don’t care a damn how stupid or persistent or argumentative you were! Nothing justifies—”
“Bart!” Her voice rose close to a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! It was nothing! He never intended to hurt me! You misunderstand all of it. Oakley wasn’t … cruel. It was the whiskey. He just …”
Victor looked at Mina’s terror, and at Bart, white-faced and torn with indecision.
“Didn’t it hurt?” he asked very gently.
“No, no Victor dear, it was all over very quickly,” she assured him. “Bart is just a little”—she hesitated—“protective of me.”
“That’s not true!” Victor’s voice was thick, almost choking. “It hurts—it frightens! It’s in your face! You were terrified of him. And he made you feel ashamed all the time, and worthless …”
“No! No, that’s not true. He didn’t mean it. And I am all right, I promise you!”
“Because the swine is dead!” Bart spat. He was about to add something more, but he got no further. Mina burst into tears, her shoulders hunched over as dry sobs racked
her and she sank onto the sofa. Bart strode forward, almost knocking Victor out of the way, and took Pitt roughly by the arm, propelling him towards the door. Victor remained immobile.
In the hallway Pitt made no protest, and a few moments later, feeling the bruises of Bait’s fingers on his arm a trifle tenderly, he walked along the footpath towards the main thoroughfare. It was a clear evening, and still just light. He was not expecting anything to happen for some time.
He spent a tense fifteen minutes taking a glass of cider in a public house, then continued his way as the cloud cover grew heavier and the daylight dimmed. It was some time before he was sure he was being followed. At first it was only a sensation, a consciousness of a sound which echoed his footsteps, stopping when he did, resuming when he did.
By the time he reached Marylebone Road it was dark, and he had great difficulty in not increasing his speed. It was an odd, prickling feeling, and most unpleasant. If he were correct in his guesses, tenuous as they were, built on impressions and a few threads of tangible, definite evidence, then it was the Headsman who was now behind him, watching, coming closer, waiting his chance. He would have the weapon with him. He would have taken it from its hiding place and left the house, hurrying to catch up.
In spite of his resolution to appear natural, he could not keep his step from hastening. He heard the rapid, slightly uneven tap, tap of his boots on the pavement, and behind him, closer now, the echoing feet, swift and light, of his follower.
Marylebone Road turned into the Euston Road. A landau passed him, carriage lamps yellow, horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. He was walking now as fast as he could without actually running. The lamplighter was passing, tipping his long pole to each wick and one by one they sprang to life, a row of brilliant isolated globes, between which stretched areas of darkness, hiding passersby, people on their way home, weary from the day or expectant of the evening. He saw the tall outline of a stovepipe hat against the light as a man hurried by.
Euston station was only a hundred yards ahead. He could feel the sweat of fear on his body and he was breathing hard, even though he still had not quite broken from a walk.
The steps were closer behind him.
He dare not force a confrontation here. Until he was actually attacked, there was no proof. All his bullying of Mina would have been to no purpose.
He turned into the entrance of the railway station. It was late and there were few people about. The chill air of evening after the warm day had turned misty. In the clatter of trains and the shout of porters, the whistles and hoots, the hiss of steam, he could no longer hear footsteps behind him.
On the platform he turned. There was a porter; an elderly gentleman with a document case; a woman with hair that looked black in the dim light, and a shawl around her shoulders; a young man half in the shadows, seemingly waiting for someone. Another, older woman came in, looking anxiously about her.
Pitt walked across the platform then turned and went along its length towards the bridge over the tracks. He climbed up; the steps were slippery. He heard his boots clattering on the metal edges of each rise. Clouds of steam billowed up into the gathering mist and slight drizzle. The platform lights were a jumble of harsh, gleaming globes, swimming in the closing night and the gray rain, the train headlights and the belching steam.
He walked across the bridge above the tracks. There was too much noise to hear anyone’s footsteps, even his own. He could no longer see the platform.
Suddenly there was movement, a sense of violent danger, a hatred so scalding it was like a prickle at the back of his neck.
He swung around.
Victor Garrick was a yard away from him, the light from below catching his ashen face, his blazing eyes and the fair, almost silver gleam of his hair. Above him in his right hand was a naval cutlass, raised to strike, the arc of its blade shining.
“You’re doing it too!” he sobbed, his lips stretched back over his teeth, his face twisted in tormenting, inner pain. “You’re just the same!” he shouted above the roar. “You hurt people! You make them sick and frightened and ashamed, and I won’t let you do it to her anymore!” He slashed the cutlass through the air and Pitt moved sideways just in time to avoid its blade on his shoulder. It would have been a crippling blow, all but severing his arm.
Pitt backed away sharply as Victor lunged forward, going past him and swinging around.
“You can’t get away!” Victor’s breath was hissing through his teeth and the tears streamed down his face. “Why do you lie to me?” The cry was torn from him in a terrible, wrenching sound, and he seemed to be looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him. “Liar! Liar! You keep saying it doesn’t hurt—but I know it does! It hurts right through till your whole body aches, and you lie awake all night, knotted up, sick and ashamed and guilty, thinking it’s all your fault and waiting for the next time! I’m frightened! Nothing makes any sense! You lied to me all the time!” His voice was a scream and again the cutlass slashed through the air. “You’re frightened too! I’ve seen your face, and the bruises, and the blood! I can smell your misery! I can taste it in my mouth all the time! I won’t let it go on! I’ll stop him!” Again he slashed wildly with the blade.
Pitt backed away desperately. He did not dare use his stick; that blade would have sliced it through and left him defenseless.
It was all very plain now: the bullying Winthrop, beating Mina; the bus conductor who had callously damaged the beloved cello; the arrogant Scarborough, who had dismissed the maid and threatened her with ruin; it was always the bruised and defenseless women. He must have attacked Bailey when he had been pursuing Bart’s whereabouts at the time of the murders, and frightened Mina. She was haunted by the terror that Bart was guilty, at least of Winthrop’s death.
“But why did you kill Arledge?” he shouted aloud, his voice hoarse.
Behind them a train belched out steam and blew its whistle.
Victor looked blank.
“Why did you kill Arledge?” Pitt shouted again. “He didn’t bully anyone!”
Victor was bending a little at the knees, adjusting his balance, one hand on the railing, the other clenched around the cutlass.
Pitt moved sideways again, and backwards, just beyond reach of the blade. “What did Arledge do?”
For a moment Victor was surprised. The sudden confusion showed in his face. The anger vanished and he stood motionless.
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. You cut his head off and left him in the bandstand. Don’t you remember?”
“No I didn’t!” Victor’s voice was a shriek above the hiss and rattle of the trains. He lunged forward, swinging the blade, his weight carrying him. Pitt leapt sideways and towards him, catching him on the shoulders as Victor’s hand, clenched around the hilt, landed on his arm so hard he dropped the stick and heard it clatter on the bridge.
Pitt let out a yell of pain and fear, but it was swallowed up in the shriek of the train whistle. Now steam billowed around them. He charged forward, head down, and caught Victor in the chest. All his weight was on one foot as he reached to strike again. He lost his balance and fell backward. The railing caught him in the middle of his back and the weight of the cutlass carried him still farther. His foot slipped on the wet metal of the bridge.
Pitt scrambled after him, trying to grasp his arm, but it slipped out of his hands. His legs came up, catching Pitt and knocking him off balance.
With a scream of surprise, and then momentary terror, Victor toppled over and disappeared into the headlights of an oncoming train.
The sound of the impact was lost in the roar of the engine and the shrill screech of the whistle. For a blazing second the engine driver’s white face was imprinted on Pitt’s mind, and then it was all over. He stood gripping the rail with shaking hands, his body cold and his mind illuminated with a harsh, clear understanding, and an undeniable pity.
Victor was gone. His rage and his pain were unreachable now.
Then as the s
team cleared and he turned, he saw another figure behind where he had stood. She was moving forward, clasping the rail and pulling herself along like a blind person in the dark, her face ashen.
He stared at her in horror. Suddenly it was all clear. It was she Victor had been shouting at, not Pitt at all. That fearful emotion had been directed at her, and all the terror and pain of the past.
“I didn’t know!” The words were torn out of her. “Not until tonight. I swear!”
“No,” he answered, so overwhelmed with pity his voice was barely a whisper in his throat.
“It was his father, you see,” she went on, desperate he should understand. “He beat me. He wasn’t a wicked man, he just couldn’t control his temper. I always used to tell Victor it was all right, that it didn’t hurt. I thought it was the right thing to do!” A look of confusion and despair filled her, obliterating even grief for the moment. “I thought I was protecting him. I thought it would be all right, do you see? I didn’t want him hating his father, and Samuel wasn’t bad—just …” An anguished pleading filled her. Her eyes searched his face, willing him to believe her. “He did love us, in his way, I know he did. He told me so … often. It was my fault he got so angry. If I had been …”
“It’s over,” he said, moving towards her. He could not bear any more. Down below them the train had stopped, billowing steam, and there were men running along the platform and shouting. She should not see this. Someone should take her away. Someone should try to do something for the terrible pain in her. “Come.” He held her by the arm and half dragged her towards the steps. “There’s nothing else here now.”
That same morning Charlotte had gone straight from breakfast to see Emily. They were sipping lemonade together, sitting on the terrace in Emily’s garden. It was a mild sunny day, and apart from that, they chose to be out of earshot of any possible hovering servant. The situation was desperate. Plans must be made which were better not overheard. Jack would disapprove intensely, he would be bound to, with his new responsibilities. But apart from the desire to know the solution to the problem, far more urgently than that, they must do everything possible to defend Pitt.
